


Promises and Ghosts

by HoshiMukudori



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst and Feels, Case Fic, Drama, Emotional Baggage, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, LGBTQ Character, Male-Female Friendship, Patient of the Week, Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 02:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15257322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoshiMukudori/pseuds/HoshiMukudori
Summary: [Post-Season 8] Thirteen has returned to join Chase's team at PPTH, but she's not the only one who's back. A knock at the door reveals an old friend whom everyone had said goodbye to five months ago. She must solve a case while insecurities about her condition bubble to the surface again, and while helping this friend proves to be more trouble than she'd bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 日本語 available: [約束と幽霊](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804717) by [HoshiMukudori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoshiMukudori/pseuds/HoshiMukudori)



> Disclaimer : I, of course, own no rights to House, M.D. or any of its characters. The rights belong solely to the copyright holders.
> 
> Notes: The story takes place after season 8 and is set in a universe in which everything occurred in the same manner as it did in the show up to this point, with one exception. Thirteen's girlfriend, who appears briefly in season 8 has been modified into an original character.
> 
> Pairings : [13/OC, House/Cuddy]
> 
> Warnings : some profanity, illicit drug use, euthanasia, death* (I'm not sure whether this should be tagged as major character death, as it is, in fact, a major character death, but it's also according to canon.)

 

 

**Chapter 1**

Three knocks at the door jar me out of the novel I'm reading. I couldn't sleep, so I'm in the living room. Who would drop by in the dead of night without warning? An image flashes into my head; Darrien at the door, gushing blood from a knife wound. I haven't seen her since that last time at the hospital. She's never forgiven me.

The knocks come again. I set down my book on the coffee table. There's something about that sound. Something distinct and familiar; not made by knuckles, but by the hollow clack of wood striking wood. I hurry into the bedroom with soft steps and throw on the pair of pyjama bottoms that match my shirt, then make my way to the door.

_Clack. Clack. Clack._  It hits me like a punch to the stomach.

It's him. That realisation steels me as I turn the knob and swing the door open. His intense blue eyes burn into mine. He looks more or less the same as the last time I saw him. He's dressed in his motorcycle jacket over a t-shirt and jeans, several days of stubble on his cheeks.

But how? And why?

He taps his cane to the concrete step. It's a new one; glossy black lacquered wood with a nickel-plated, derby style handle.

"House," I say, more a statement than a question. "What are you doing here?"

"You're not nearly as surprised as I thought you'd be," he says between taps, "to be talking to a man who died five months ago."

I shift a bit in the doorway, grabbing the hem of my buttoned red satin shirt and brushing my fingers along the fabric.

"You knew?" he asks.

"No, but after a while I sort of had a feeling," I say. "More importantly, what are you doing here?"

"Really? You're not curious? Not even a little?" His features look hollow and gaunt in the harsh shadow the street lights cast over him. He's lost weight. The dark circles under his eyes suggest he hasn't been sleeping."How I'm still alive, where I've been all this time?"

"No. Is that why you're here? To boast about the success of your genius plan?"

"I said I'd kill you. So I came back."

"I see." My lips curl into a bitter smirk. "Well, I'm fine... so, I don't need you to."

"You will eventually. I can wait."

I look across the street, over parked cars, to the door of another row house, then back at him, smile widening. "That's still going to be years from now. You know that, right? Besides, I've got another trial lined up. I'm giving it another shot. I might be around for longer than you think."

"Someone's become optimistic while I was away."

"Come on, if you just wanted to see me, admit it."

His expression hardens from blank to decidedly solemn. "Wilson is dead." He taps his cane to the step a few more times.

A sick feeling diffuses throughout my abdomen as if my entire GI tract has tangled up like a fleshy ball of yarn. My tongue sticks from a sudden loss of saliva. I force a parched swallow. What can I say? It shouldn't be a shock. Everyone knew deep down it was going to happen. But still, hearing those words spoken so plainly has transformed the looming dread into reality.

How is House even standing here? How isn't he lying dead in an alleyway somewhere, or a run-down motel room, overdosed on heroin and cheap booze?

I'd never said it, of course, but all along that was what I'd honestly believed would happen in the end, if he hadn't died in that fire.

"Hey, wasn't it you who once bitched at me for being expressionless? Or has my memory dulled?"

The spud gun competition. When I told him the truth about my brother. When he didn't say a word. I got upset. I told him it was no wonder Cuddy broke up with him. He still remembers that?

"Sorry," I quickly say. "I know how much he meant to you. I know nothing will ever be the same again." Moisture gathers at the edges of my eyes. My voice is shaking and I'm losing the fight to keep it steady. "He was special. I cared about him too. He was the nicest guy I've ever met."

"That's it?" he barks. "Nice try. Now I know why I hate consoling words. They never work."

"Just shut up and come in." I move out of the doorway, wiping my eyes when my back faces him.

We walk towards the couch. The back of it faces the door, so we go around to the front, each of his steps sounding more strained than the last. He stumbles into the leg of the coffee table and his cane falls to the rug with a muffled plop. I catch him, help him stand.

His sleeve rolls up a bit as I move my hand along his arm. There are punctures lining his wrist.

"You're using." I roll his sleeve up further. "Are you okay?"

"What do you think?!" He jerks away, staggering. "My leg hurts, the only person who's ever given a damn about me—the only person in the whole fucking world—is dead!"

He collapses partway off the rug, onto the hardwood floor. I rush over to help him up, but he shoves my arm back.

His eyes glisten with a naked helplessness I've never seen in him before. And I can't let him know how much that's shaking me.

"I... I understand how you feel, but that's not—"

"—No, you  _don't_  understand!"

I jolt upright. How can he say that? "I killed my own brother, dammit! Don't tell me I don't understand!"

My voice rings in the silence that follows.

"You're not alone." He stares over and up at the TV screen, avoiding my gaze. "You've got someone."

I loosen my fists again and head into the other room to fetch a bottle of wine and two glasses from the bar that separates the dining area from the open kitchen and return to him.

I extend a glass to him. "You don't have to be alone."

I'm expecting some flavour of contempt or sarcasm, but he just takes it and I pour some for both of us.

We spend the next hour emptying the bottle without another word, a strange air hanging between the two of us. Maybe it's an unspoken understanding. Or maybe it's simply because neither of us has anything else to say.

* * *

_**Monday** _

The smell of rice cooking wafts into the bedroom. I roll over. The space beside me is empty and the clock reads 10:23am. "Crap," I groan. Maybe staying up drinking wasn't such a great idea.

I pull my body from the warm cocoon of the sheets and drag myself, with a pounding headache, into the kitchen.

The figure at the stove and rice-cooker isn't the one I expected to find. "I was in the mood for bacon, but your fridge looks like the Asian aisle." He glances to Aya fiddling with her tablet at the dining table, his eyes running up and down her petite form. "Good thing your girlfriend is hot."

I smile. It's like last night never happened. I'm sure Aya heard us shouting, but figured to give us our space.

"Does she speak English?"

"Yeah." Having a seat at the island bar that stands between the kitchen and the table, I watch House take two bowls and fill them with stir-fried vegetables and steamed rice.

"Then you must have told her I eviscerate small animals for fun, or something, because apparently she has no intention of talking to me." He looks back at me. "What's her name? Of course, I'm fine with calling her 'cute Asian chick', CAC for short."

"Aya." I trade a glance with her. She can hear everything we're saying, but obviously prefers to leave us to it.

"Well, I guess that explains why she didn't react when I told her in Mandarin to strip naked and douse herself in honey, then get you to lick it off."

I smile again. House is still House. Even after all he's been through. That fills me with a strange sort of warmth. I've missed his obnoxious remarks and the unique flavour of humour that often bounced between the two of us.

He sets down the two bowls at the bar, one for me and one for him. Aya has already eaten, so it's just us. I'd thank him for cooking, but he's never been one to care about such niceties.

"How did you two meet?" he asks me, eyes flitting to Aya again.

"She's an artist. We met at a gallery. Boring story. You might remember we went to Mykonos together. " I eat as hurriedly as I can without risking indigestion, then get up to grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water.

"If you're so curious, you'd be better off asking her yourself." I take down all the liquid in a few gulps and set the glass beside the sink. "I'm already late for work."

"Work?" House questions after another bite. "Yeah, guess all that travel must get pricey. So, what is it now? Construction? Finally serving up those fries? Or is it something a bit shadier? You always did have a talent for knowing good product."

"No, no, and no." I head into the living room for my boots. They're by the front door.

"You've gone back. After I set you free," he calls. "You're an idiot."

I slide my feet in and lace up with a smirk. That was the very same phrase I'd uttered to him repeatedly when I found out he was injecting himself full of experimental drugs.

Great. My car keys are on the counter. I go back to where he's sitting.

"No, I've just realised something important."

"What?" he asks at normal volume. "That spending day after day with your cute Japanese girlfriend is surprisingly boring? And that you lied when you said you liked boring?"

"No." I smirk again, noticing Aya is raising a brow slightly. "Working in medicine is part of who I am." I snatch up the keys from between some decorative jars. "And... I  _do_  enjoy the weird cases. I realise I always have."

"But I had to die before you had that stunning revelation?"

"It had nothing to do with you..." I head out of the room again. "Not really."

"So, what's it like, then, working for Chase?" His voice raises in volume once more. "He's not still trying to sleep with you, I hope. Otherwise you could have him fired."

I turn back and face him through the archway. "How did you know he's taken over your department?"

"Who else would have?" He sets down his spoon with a grimace."You know, now that you're a doctor again..." His hand drops to his thigh and rubs. He doesn't finish what he was going to say. He's stopped himself.

His puncture riddled arm flashes into my mind. How long has he been shooting up? He's probably going through withdrawal. I can't let him suffer.

"Yeah, I'll get you something for the pain. Just don't fall back on home remedies."

Something in his face reveals a hint of surprise. He wasn't expecting that.

I go to the dining table and lean down to kiss Aya. "I'm heading out. I'll be back for dinner unless something serious comes up."

"Okay." She grabs my hand. "Why are you letting him stay?" she whispers.

"He's been through a lot." I answer softly, glancing back to the kitchen. House gets up and heads out through the archway for the bathroom in the hall. "I think he needs me right now."

"You're going to write a prescription for him, aren't you?" Aya's eyes widen in concern. "He's supposed to be dead. You're going to use a fake name. You're going to get yourself in trouble."

"No, I'm not. Everything's gonna be fine." I give her another kiss, this time on the forehead as I start to slip my hand from hers.

But she tightens her grip. "He's an addict. Why do this? Why take a risk for him?"

"He's not a bad guy. Not deep down. And, in a screwed up way, he was there for me when I needed him."

"I just... I just hope you know what you are doing." She gives my fingers a squeeze. "Remy _, ki wo tsukete, ne_?" B _e careful, okay?_

**_******_ **


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The others are around the table, visible through the floor-length windows that encase the conference room and office. Taub and Adams both sip cups of coffee. Park has her eyes fixed on Chase, who's standing in front of the white board, which already has symptoms written across it.

"I thought you'd be in earlier," he says, snapping the cap back on the dry erase marker. "Something wrong?"

"No, it's nothing." I slide into the chair next to Park. "Could you run me through the case?"

"32-year-old male caucasian; acute onset ataxia, muscle spasms, slurred speech, migraine, fatigue, nausea," he reads off from the board.

"Has he suffered any recent head trauma?" I ask.

"Not according to the ER."

"Could be a Vitamin B12 deficiency." Park leans forwards, as if to draw Chase's attention. He doesn't appear to notice.

"Heavy metal toxicity," I suggest.

Taub puts down his mug. "Drug use."

"Heavy metal or drugs would be most likely," Chase says.

Park frowns and her gaze drops to the glass of the table.

"Thirteen, Park, check the home. Taub, run a tox screen. Adams, get his history."

* * *

"It's nice that you're back," Park says, fiddling with the radio. "House talked about you all the time, so it's sort of like you've been here with us."

I squint at the road in front of me, not quite sure I've heard that right. Not sure I even want to know.

She settles on a rock station. It's some song I don't know. "So, um, you're gay or something, right?"

My eyes shoot wide open. It's like an extreme sour flavour hitting my tongue all at once. "Apparently, my sexuality came up a lot even after I was gone, I take it."

She sucks her lips into her mouth and rolls her eyes.

Lovely. I look at the cars in front again. Traffic is pretty bad today.

"It's okay, y'know," she says. "I don't mind... even if you're attracted to me."

Wow. Things just got even more awkward.

"Okayyy... well that's nice to know, but I'm in a relationship. And I don't think you've got anything to worry about."

Neither of us says anything else until I decide to change the topic. Why not to her personal life, instead? "I've heard you're seeing some guy in a band."

"Nah, I broke up with him. Sort of got something more serious going on with someone else."

"Anyone I know?"

She just smiles a little.

Yeah, she's definitely got a crush on him. But it's not  _that_  creepy.

About fifteen minutes pass before we pull up to the house. It's small, single-storey, but in a nice suburban neighbourhood. I get out first. Park follows me to the door.

"Crap, it's locked." She rattles the knob.

"Would've been a surprise if it wasn't." I pull a lockpick from the pocket of my brown leather jacket.

"Wow." She watches my fingers work the lock, eyes wide behind her thick-framed glasses. "You're good."

With a click and a push, the door pops open.

"How'd you learn to do that?" She stares at me as we step inside.

"Ah, it's a long story."

"You're so mysterious," she says with a sigh.

She goes for the bathroom. I start in the living room. It's clean, minimalist, and modern; leather couch set, glass coffee table, stainless steel lamps, 46 inch plasma. I like his style. Reminds me of my place.

"You don't like to talk about yourself much," Park calls, straining to raise her voice loud enough.

I comb through the bookshelf. He's quite the reader. There's everything from classics to encyclopaedias, history books to mystery novels.

"Sort of like House."

I can't help a laugh under my breath. I'm not like House at all. I mean, sure, neither of us likes to talk about our personal lives, and I think I can safely say neither of us likes to show weakness, but still...

"Oops... sorry! I don't want to disrespect his memory!"

Nothing in the living room. I head for the dining room.

"Or you, of course!" she quickly adds.

"It's okay," I call back in an unconcerned tone. She's so awkward. It's actually cute in a weird sort of way.

It only takes a scan of the area and it's clear there's nothing of interest. I move into the kitchen, peek in the fridge and cabinets, check under the sink to see if there's any mould. It's clean.

"How about asking Chase out again?" I take a sample of the tap water. "You never know. He might just need another shove."

"How?!" Her whiny voice manages to reach me. "How do you know about that?!"

"We're friends. We've stayed in touch. "

* * *

We're gathered again in the conference room. We've all had a quick lunch. I've talked to Aya on the phone. It's about 3:30.

"No history of genetic illness," Adams starts.

"Tox screen came back clean." Taub takes a seat.

"Home was clean too," I say.

"Except..." Park draws a vial from her coat. "We found this in the medicine cabinet. Testosterone cypionate. It was prescribed."

Taub raises a brow. "Why would he be taking testosterone?"

"Doubt it's relevant." I push my hair behind my ear.

"No, it's best to find out," Chase says. "We need to narrow this down. You two go and ask him about it."

"Okay." Park and I stand.

* * *

The patient glances up from where he's lying in bed as we enter the room. He's thin, clean-cut with dark hair and blue eyes. Handsome, even with the drained complexion and chapped lips. A casually-dressed young woman with wavy blonde hair stands from the chair beside the bed to meet us. Must be his girlfriend. She's pretty, but not my type.

"We're doctors Hadley and Park." I hold out my hand. "We'd like to ask Kevin a few more questions."

"It's nice to meet you." She shakes mine, then Park's.

"We've, um, searched your home—" Park starts.

"You... you... s—" Kevin stutters.

"It's okay, honey," the girl says, eyes turning harsher when she faces us. "What were you looking for?"

"We needed to be sure there weren't any toxins at home that could be causing this," I explain.

"We didn't find any," Park says. "But we did find a vial of testosterone. You didn't mention being on any prescriptions."

"That's, uh... it's nothing." His mouth is stiff and his speech comes out slurred. "I...uh... I had surgery... about ten years ago."

"It was before we met, but he... had his testicles removed and needs to inject testosterone."

Park looks at me with wide eyes, then turns to Kevin. "Any specific reason?"

"They, um... t—they were undescended, b—basically non-functional... my doctor said it would be better to just have them removed and go on testosterone."

Park opens her mouth about to speak, but I pull her aside. "It's not diagnostically relevant. I'm sure it's embarrassing for him, so let's just leave it at that."

"If he has a pre-existing condition he's not telling us about, it could be important," she argues.

"If it's an intersex condition, he'd have had it his whole life. His symptoms first started last week. I highly doubt it's related. Let's not make this any more unpleasant for him, okay?"

* * *

Just as Chase and Taub return to the conference room, I'm writing on the board. It's 5:00. "He's spiking a low-grade fever now and vomiting."

"He had his testicles removed," Park chimes in from the table. "That's why he's on the testosterone. He claims they were undescended, non-functional. Could be an intersex condition."

"It's not relevant." I glance back to her. "We should do an LP and check for meningitis."

"Interesting, but yeah, Thirteen is probably right." Chase walks over to the board. He looks at me. "Go ahead and do the LP."

Taub's brows raise. His eyes start on me, then flit to Chase. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Why?"

"It takes a steady hand is all I'm saying."

His face suddenly seems more irritating than usual. I squeeze the marker for a moment, then pass it to Chase in a single hard motion. "I'm fine, dammit."

"Um... you know, mood issues can be an early symptom."

I want to tell him to piss off, but that would only make it look like he's right. And why  _am_  I so angry? It's because it hasn't reached that point yet. I'd know. And to have him accuse me like this, it's only natural I'd be offended.

"If she says she's fine, she's fine." Chase sets the marker down.

"Thanks." I let out a deep breath.

"If you say so." Taub leaves.

* * *

"Try to hold as still as you can, okay?" I palpate the patient's lumbar vertebrae a final time, then hold the 20 gauge needle poised above where the nurse has swabbed and marked.

It's no good. Too unsteady. His shoulders and arms keep twitching. His abdominal muscles contract and loosen in succession.

"I'm t―trying, but I can't..."

"Push 10mg diazepam," I say to the nurse.

Within a minute the twitching abates, but doesn't fully subside. His right arm extends and retracts, then goes in small circles repetitively. Involuntary movements. Chorea. What's going to happen to me. My mouth goes dry and my heart rate increases.

I press the tip to his skin. It's still shaking. "Hold him down."

The nurse does as I say. It's not working. The tip won't sit still.

"Could you hold him tighter?"

"Doctor Hadley..."

"What?" I glance up.

"It's... not the patient."

My hands. They're trembling. Oh, God.

"Are you okay?"

This is not happening. Not yet. I can control this.

"Do you want me to get someone else?"

"No. I'm fine." My eyes drift to the drawer beside us where she just took out the diazepam for the patient. "Just give me a moment. Keep holding him like that."

I set the needle on the tray and step back, legs shaking a bit. What the hell's wrong with me?

"You gave him 10mg, right?" I don't know why I'm asking that. Yes, I do. To make conversation. To get the topic off me. To allay any suspicions she might have as I tuck the vial into my palm and shove it into my lab coat pocket along with a syringe I scramble to grab.

"Um, yeah, I don't see what―"

"―I need to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

* * *

I shut the stall door and fall back against it, a deep breath rushing from my lungs. My fingers quiver and tangle over one another sloppily. The vial clatters to the floor. "Shit!" I say under my breath.

I snatch it up, draw 5mg, somehow manage to hold myself together just long enough to get it in a vein. When the plunger is back up, a sudden heat envelopes my face and chest, a weight that drags me to the floor and leaves me a squatting mass of trembling.

"Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!" I fight to stop the tears from falling to my cheeks.

This is nothing. I've got this, dammit. I'm not falling apart. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve and stand back up, inhale and exhale slowly. Over and over. I put my fingers to my wrist and take my pulse. It's coming down.

Everything is okay. I can do this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Sign here." The pharmacist taps the paper. I grab a pen and scrawl my signature, paying no mind to the nurses and other doctors bustling through the lobby. Just as he brings me the bottle of pills, Park rushes up. "Patient's in surgery."

"What? Why?" I tuck the bottle into my coat pocket, her eyes following the motion.

"Epidural haematoma. Caused by the LP."

Tightness grips my chest. It's like I've taken a shot to the heart. I can't say anything. I just hurry after Park to the conference room.

Taub's voice is audible in the hall as we come up. "I told you. Thirteen screwed up. You shouldn't have let her do it."

That slimy little bastard. I can't hold it in this time. I charge in, a rush of pure rage carrying me. "I didn't screw up!"

"Uh, I'm afraid you did. Patient is paralysed from the waist down."

"I didn't screw up!" I close in on him, towering over his bulbous head by at least two inches.

"Yelling that over and over isn't going to change anything."

"It's all right." Chase puts his hand on my arm. That's all he has to say? He thinks it was my fault too? "The patient is stable, that's what's important right now."

"Yeah, you're just lucky it wasn't worse, lucky we caught it in time," Taub says smugly. "He could've gone into respiratory failure. You could've killed him. As it stands, he may never walk again."

Before I can shove it in my pocket, my fist flies and slams into Taub's face. He falls back against the table. I keep going, grab his shoulders. I have no idea what I'm doing. I just need to hurt him.

"Whoa, whoa, settle down!"

Hands grab me on both sides; Chase and Park. They pull me away. Adams just stares.

"She punched me! She punched my damn nose!" Taub clutches at the obnoxious protrusion, blood seeping through his finger tips. "I think it's broken!"

What the hell have I done? I'm losing control. The shock holds me stunned for several moments, unable to move or speak. Adams goes over to Taub to examine his injury. Chase keeps a grip on my arm.

I tear away and rush out into the hall.

He comes after me. "Thirteen—Hadley!"

Does he think using my real name makes any difference?

His fingers clutch my shoulder. "You're not fine. You need to do something about this. Let me help."

"There's nothing you, or anyone else, can do." I tug away.

* * *

The lights are off when I come through the door. It's past nine o'clock. I've missed dinner. I ended up driving around, then stopping and sitting in my car for about three hours after leaving the hospital. I needed to be alone.

No sign of Aya, but there's the faint sound of music coming from her studio. She must be working. I pull the bottle I've had on me all evening from my jacket and pour a single pill onto my palm, making my way to the front of the couch, where House is lying in the darkness on his back. He's not sleeping, just staring up at the ceiling, his cane propped against the couch arm.

"Here." I hold it out to him.

He takes it, eyes squinting as they scan over me, probably noticing my lack of eyeliner. It ran and I had to wash it off. "You look like crap. Kill a patient?"

His question slices like a sheet of tin. Shit, he can see through me. He once told me I've got the best game face he's ever seen, but it's not functioning at its normal capacity. For whatever reason, though, his insensitive remark hasn't fazed me.

I sit down on the edge of the cushion by his feet. "Close enough."

He pops the pill into his mouth without water and I tell him about the case, ending with how I apparently screwed up the LP because my hands were shaking.

He stares without a remark, just like when I told him about my brother.

I don't care. I keep talking for some reason. "I punched Taub in the nose."

"Good for you," he finally says.

"It's going to be a mess tomorrow." I rake my fingers through my hair. "Maybe I shouldn't have come back."

"How long has it been?"

"Today," I admit, feeling pathetic. "This will be the first case I've worked on since you tried to pull me back after you got out of prison."

He laughs. It's not the sort that's suggests anything I've said is actually humourous. "You were just telling me this morning how it's part of who you are. Revelations aren't all they're cracked up to be, huh?"

"No... it's just..."

"Life doesn't have any special meaning." He looks up at the ceiling again, eyes empty.

"Be glad you won't be here as long as the rest of us," he says with his voice soft, yet even more gravelly than usual.

"I'm gonna lose all control of my body and mind. I'll lose my identity, every shred of dignity I've got. I'll go out as a hollow, flailing husk." I clench my teeth and jolt to my feet. "That's nothing to be glad about."

"Well, none of us die with dignity. At least you know how you'll go." He grabs his cane and runs his hand along it. "That's more than I've got."

He's wrong. It's worse knowing. Who the hell wants to know how they'll die? It haunts your every waking thought. Even your dreams.

"Besides, you've got insurance. When it starts getting bad..."

"I don't care." I bite my lip until the taste of blood swirls in my mouth. It's the only way I can choke back the tears welling in my eyes. Words are cascading through my head, too numerous to decide. I can't argue with him. I'll lose the fight with my emotions.

And I won't let him see me cry again.

I start to walk away, then stop. "Why me? Why did you come to me?"

He opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, I cut him off. "And don't tell me it's to kill me. That's not the reason."

Our eyes lock through the shadows. His face is so solemn, so grim. Then comes his tone of voice, light. "Why do you think?" he scoffs. "To watch you and your girlfriend makeout."

As always, only tiny rays of his true feelings manage to shine through the thick mesh of defensive lies. Maybe he'll tell me eventually. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

Aya's in her studio, painting with classical music on. It's a human face, a girl's, drawn in a scintillating splash of colours.

"It's beautiful." I walk up behind her and place my hands at her waist. I kiss her on the neck. She shudders a bit. She's ticklish there.

"It's you." She sets down her brush on the palette.

I notice the resemblance now. Sort of embarrassing. My hair in the painting is a spectrum of blues and purples instead of the natural brown I've gone back to.

"Everything all right?" She turns around and looks up at me. My boots are still on, which she hates, by the way, but even without them she's about three inches shorter than me.

"Yeah," I lie. "It's just been a rough day. We've still got no idea what's wrong with the patient."

"Need to talk about it?" She strokes my fingers with her thumb.

"No, that's okay. I'll let you work. I'm going to take a shower."

I won't let her see the cracks forming inside me. I can't do that to her. I can't drag her down with me. I'm so stupid. I never should've brought her into this. I should've stayed alone.

* * *

The digits on the clock glare at me. 1:32AM. I can't sleep. It just keeps racing through my head over and over; the LP, the patient's paralysis, my tremors, punching Taub, the things House said. I need some water. Aya's beside me breathing softly. I climb out of bed without disturbing her.

Down the hall, towards the living room, whispers tickle my ears. I freeze by the archway to the kitchen. I could slip right in, but I don't.

"Why did you make me promise?" House hisses. "You bastard."

He's lying on his side under a blanket on the couch, his head closer to me than his feet. If he pulls his neck up to look over the couch arm, he'll see me. I shouldn't be listening. He lied for me when I came back from prison. He's never told anyone the real reason I was there.

His voice is weak, shaking. "I said I needed you, that I couldn't go on, but you didn't care."

It stings. To hear him like this, raw and stripped to the bone... why didn't I see it before? His fear; not of death. Of life.

I can't let him know I've heard. I hurry into the kitchen to get my water.

* * *

**Tuesday**

My legs move at as hurried a pace as they can without running, carrying me through the main lobby, past a blur of bodies in lab coats and scrubs, towards the elevator.

"Remy." Foreman's voice stabs me in the back.

Great. I lock in place. I'd hoped to slink through without being caught.

"I heard what happened yesterday. " His tone takes on that consoling quality it has whenever he informs a patient that a procedure is dangerous. So overly consoling it sounds forced. And I'm so not in the mood for his lecturing right now. I turn around only because ignoring him would be too passive-aggressive.

"Unless you're going to fire me again, I'd rather not talk about it."

That's got to be good enough. I start walking again, but he steps in front.

His eyes are narrowed in a way that asks if I'm ever going to let that go. No, I'm not. He's all right as a friend, but he was an ass as a boyfriend. And way too domineering for my tastes.

"Look, I'm just concerned."

"About me or about the hospital?" I press the button for the elevator.

"Both."

"Well, I have nothing to say about it." I keep my jaw stiff and my gaze on the button panel. "So either let me do my job while I still can or fire me."

"I just think you should talk to someone." His hand finds my shoulder.

"Great idea." I turn, first locked on his fingers that seem to dig in straight to the bone, then meet his eyes. "Because I already have."

He doesn't say anything else, just gives me a knowing look I'm supposed to read.

The doors come open. It's empty. I step in without another backward glance.

* * *

The air in the conference room couldn't be more thick with awkwardness. Adams scrutinises and Taub cuts me with sharp eyes as he massages his bandaged nose in the seat across from me.

"Are you okay?" Park whispers beside me.

"Yes, I'm okay." I say loudly, for the benefit of all.

Chase raises his brows slightly, then looks at a paper with test results. "Negative for bacterial or viral meningitis, but elevated protein levels could mean cancer."

"Neurological symptoms makes the brain the best bet," I say.

"Get an MRI." Chase puts the paper on the table.

Park hops up, but then leans close. "Are you sure you're okay?"

" _Yesss_." My tone is a bit biting. Her eyes soften and her lips pout. Now I feel like a jerk. I normally only get this way with House. "I'll go with you." I stand.

Taub reluctantly raises from his seat to accompany us. Apparently nose injuries make walking difficult.

* * *

"Guess what," Park suddenly says while we wait for the images of the patient's brain to load up on the monitors.

I glance over. "Good news?"

"You were right. I've got a date with Chase." A smile struggles to break on her face, then finally does. "We're going to see a movie Saturday night."

Before I can reply, Taub comes back from helping the patient. He gives me that look again.

"I'm sorry, all right?"

"Yeah... if only 'sorry' could make my nose feel better." He sits down in the swivel chair at Park's other side.

"So, you pressing charges then?"

He tilts his head. "Maybe."

"Come on, just accept her apology," Park cuts in. "It won't happen again." She looks at me for a moment, eyes wide. "...right?"

Wish I could agree. Wish I could believe I knew for sure.

"As a fellow assaulter..." He rubs his nose, voice coming out in a congested, nasal tone. "...typical you'd say that."

I'd like to make a joke about him being a whiny bitch, but I can't. I turn my attention to the monitor. No lesions, but there's an obvious mass, bright against the dark. "Right there. Posterior fossa meningioma." I point without touching the screen.

"It's fairly large and in a difficult spot," Park says. "But we should be able to get it."

* * *

Legs splayed on a bench, my head rests back against the cool tile wall of the locker room. Any other time I wouldn't hang out here. It's awkward watching women undress, fearing they might notice if my eyes linger too long, or maybe even if I keep my gaze plastered to the floor.

But tonight, no one's here. And even if they were, it wouldn't matter.

Girls could be chasing each other around the lockers without a shred of clothing on, like some teenaged boy's ridiculous fantasy and I honestly wouldn't care.

It's almost 8:30. I should go home. But I'm not sure I want to.

I ended up being the one to tell the patient about the tumour. Taub obviously wanted to torture me. Adams was no help. Park just kept gushing about Chase.

It actually wasn't the worst news, but delivering it wasn't easy. His girlfriend—or fiancée, rather—verbally attacked me, frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog. I apologised over and over. But it didn't matter. She wants to sue the hospital, specifically me, for malpractice.

The patient himself wasn't angry. In fact, disturbingly, he knows about my Huntington's. Someone's got a big mouth. He said it wasn't my fault. He's paralysed from the waist down and he feels sorry for me. How sick is that?

It's become all about the disease. More than I'm a doctor, more than I'm bisexual, more than I'm a human being, I'm someone with Huntington's. That's my identity now.

If only the ticking time-bomb in my DNA could be surgically removed just like the patient's meningioma; the tumour that, while benign, because of its location and size was responsible for causing increased intra-cranial pressure, leading to his symptoms. Yeah, Chase and the team got it all. The surgery went well and he'll be fine now.

I smile bitterly at the seam where the top of the wall and the ceiling intersect, mocking myself for such a stupid thought. DNA modification. Sounds like something that belongs in a sci-fi movie Kutner would've enjoyed.

I thought I'd accepted it. Thought I wasn't afraid any more. I clutch at the edges of the bench. That was just a lie because I didn't want to fall apart.

Now what? My eyes mist up. Good thing I'm alone. I pull up a bit, then let my head fall back against the wall again, not quite hard enough to actually hurt. Lying to everyone else is easy, but lying to myself... I can't do it any more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

I grip my cane and tap it to the rug over and over. Days are long and empty. My only pleasure is the single morphine pill Thirteen will give me when she comes home. It's 8:41PM. I watch the minutes slowly tick on the digital clock hanging above the TV. She's not back yet. Why am I letting her ration me like this? Why not just score my own solution?

CAC comes out of her studio, heading my way.

"So," I call out from the couch. She stops just at the archway to the kitchen, meeting my gaze. "Which one of you is the top?"

Her mouth curves into a tiny smile. "Wouldn't you like to know," she says, then disappears into the kitchen.

Wow. Wasn't expecting that. First reply from her and I've been prodding at every chance. Actually, the pill isn't the only pleasure. This qualifies as one; making ridiculous comments to this girl and watching her face for any hint of reaction.

"It's Thirteen, isn't it?" I call. "Gotta be."

No answer.

The front door pops open. I turn around, craning my neck over the back of the couch. Speak of the devil. Finally. Her hair's a bit tousled. She pulls the bottle from her right jacket pocket and comes closer. Her eyeliner is all but wiped away again. It's not hard to guess why. She wouldn't have this problem if she carried a purse like most girls.

Her hand is steady as she opens the bottle and pours out the pill. "Here."

I take it and pop it in my mouth, force it down with a hard swallow.

"Cocoa Puffs hasn't fired you, then?" I ask. "I had a betting pool going."

Her brows draw tight, eyes wide.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not hallucinating. I'm the only one in the pool."

She looks relieved.

"And since I don't have any money left... I was betting these peanut butter M&Ms." I grab the bag beside me and hold it up. "Pretty pointless, actually. Just like one-player Monopoly." I fish out a handful of candy.

"Besides I was just going to eat them, anyway." I pop one in, as if it's another pill.

She sits down next to me, flashing me a look of pity.

"M&M?" I extend the bag to her.

She takes some.

"Hey, I said M&M, not  _M &Ms_."

She gives a half-hearted smile. "You know I'm the one who bought them, right?"

The microwave beeps. I don't need to see into the kitchen to know that CAC is reheating dinner for Thirteen. Must be nice, having someone like her. Someone who's always thinking of you.

"So... how goes the case?"

She fills me in, tells me it's concluded, but I somehow doubt that's really the final piece of the puzzle. These things have a pattern to them, after all, and it's hardly ever so simple.

* * *

It comes back when I close my eyes. That cheap motel room just outside some town I can't recall the name of. After a while they all blurred together, but I'll never forget that room.

The peeling beige paint and brown shag carpet, the twenty-year-old television set atop a battered dresser, the cracked yellow tiles of the cramped bathroom reeking of over-used disinfectants, the pair of single beds with itchy sheets you'd rather not have against your skin and the burgundy drapes that blocked out the sun that last day.

I can hear his voice.

"Promise me," he says between ragged breaths. His cheeks are hollow, his eyes sunken and dark. Sweat glistens off his pale skin. "Promise me." He reaches his hand out towards me.

"No." I stay on my own bed, sat uncomfortably on the edge.

"House... please..."

"There's enough for both of us." My eyes flick to the bedside table, to the Zip-Loc bag filled with white powder beside a spoon, a glass of water, a lighter, a tourniquet, a batch of cotton swabs and two syringes.

"That's... not the point."

"Then what is?"

"I'm too tired for games... just promise me."

"No." I grab the Zip-Loc bag and pour as much as will fit onto the spoon.

"You're an ass..." he sighs, straining to find a better position for his head in his flat pillow.

"I need you." I don't look at him as I say that. I can't. Instead, I stare at the wavering shadows of trees pouring in through the gap between the drapes and adding to the darkness.

"And  _I_  need  _you_  to live... to go on. I need to know you're going to be okay."

I mix the powder with water and hold the lighter underneath the spoon. "Well, I won't be."

"Please..." A tear snakes slowly down his face. "...if our friendship has ever meant anything to you... just do this one thing for me."

"We've had this conversation before." I squeeze the spoon handle as the flame casts flickers throughout the room and melts the powder into liquid.

"That's... why I need you to listen this time." His voice breaks into a sob. "Please... let me go."

I draw the cooked solution through a cotton swab into each of the syringes, my eyes filling with wet. I fight as hard as I can to keep it from spilling over and down my face.

"No, I... I don't want to be here without you, dammit. I can't..." A warm drop touches my cheek. Then my nose. Then my other cheek. I stand, set down the second syringe and close the gap to his bed in a single limp.

He reaches for me again. This time I hold out my hand and he clutches it, his palm cool and clammy.

"I... I love you," I say harsh and quick, clenching my teeth at those ridiculous words.

He smiles weakly, tears filling to the brim, flowing down in a river.

"There. You finally got me to say it. Happy now?"

He just holds my hand tighter.

My eyes stay locked with his."So let me go with you." 」

"Where to?" He arches a brow. "You don't believe in—"

I cut him off. "You know that's not what I mean."

"No, just hold on," he says. "Hold on for me, please..."

"Why?"

"Because you can go on... you might not know it yet, but you can. I know you can. And I want you to."

"But why?" A spark of anger rises up inside me. "What the hell for? If you're so sure there's something after this, what do you care if I check out too?"

"Because you should go back to Cuddy. She loves you."

"No, she doesn't."

"Why do you think she didn't show up at your funeral?"

"Oh, I see," I scoff. "Not showing up means she really, really loves me? Wow, I must be even worse at these emotional things than I thought."

"Says someone who's spent his whole life running away from the people he cares most about." He coughs. "Just listen to me. You know I'm right. I'm always right about these things." He strains to smile again.

Somewhere deep inside, I know the truth. A painful heat erupts in my throat and pushes out a sound I didn't know I could make. "You are..." That comes out muffled by my faltering vocal cords. "That's why you can't... you can't leave me now..."

"You know I can't stay, no matter how badly I want to." His words tremble. "It's not in my power."

"I know." I force a hard swallow and grab one of the syringes. Thirteen's voice floods into my head. The stuff she said about respecting Wilson's wishes, about loyalty, about how I set her free in an act of selflessness and didn't even like her that much.

It's sad, but that's pretty much the only reason I'm here right now five months later, in this shitty motel room, watching him slip away from me instead of just knocking him out and forcibly dosing him with chemotherapy drugs like I wanted.

"Don't..." He stretches and grabs my wrist.

It's all I can do to push my voice out. "I won't."

"Promise me," he says again.

I close my eyes in a long blink that squeezes out two more giant tears, then meet his gaze. "I promise," I say, unable to hold my voice or my body steady.

I tie the tourniquet around his arm, tap the barrel of the syringe, then aim for his exposed vein. The needle tip slides under his skin.

"Thank you." He squeezes my hand. Those two simple words somehow convey all his love.

I push the plunger down, my heart sinking along with it.

"I know you don't believe, but... but... this isn't the end... we'll see each other again."

I can't mock him. I can't. No matter how stupid it sounds. All I can do is watch his face turn from agony to peace as my breath catches with uncontrollable sobs.

In the space of a few seconds, his fingers loosen their grip on my hand, his chest stops rising and falling. His eyes go empty, but a faint smile stays with him.

I fall over his body. There's no heartbeat. He's gone. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

Hours pass and I'm just sitting on the floor by his bed, salty streaks burning my face until I can't cry any more, until there's not a single tear left and I'm exhausted and dead inside, and wanting nothing more than to use the second syringe. But I can't. I have to go.

I pull myself up and throw on my motorcycle jacket, take the photo of him and Amber and the last fifty from his wallet and tuck it into mine. I want to keep his whole wallet, but it's best to leave him with ID. I wipe my prints clean from everything, then grab my cane and limp towards the door. They'll find him soon enough.

The evening sun bounces off the asphalt of the parking lot and glares in my eyes. It's so harsh and orange after hiding away in that dark room for days. Somehow, the nerves in my leg are dead without narcotics. Instead my entire body is heavy with a different sort of pain. It's hard to breathe.

I hop on my bike and start down the lonely, tree-lined road, a robot with no idea where I'm headed. The prognosis was five months and it was more or less on time. It was fun. Maybe more fun than we've ever had. Until he started getting sick. This last week was the worst. I'd agreed soon after we took off to shoot him full of heroin when it got too bad. I'd planned to do the same for myself. But, in the end, he made that impossible.

Now I'm alone. More alone than I've ever been.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Wednesday**

I'm getting dressed for work when Aya comes back into the bedroom.

"Who's this?" She holds up a wallet and pulls out two photos. The first is Wilson and Amber. The second is Cuddy and Rachel. Clearly House's wallet.

"How'd you get that?"

"He's been sleeping in his underwear." She smiles. "So I figured to throw his clothes in the wash. It was in the back pocket of his jeans."

I give her an astonished look.

"So... who are they?"

I don't know where to start. "People who were important to him."

"Were?"

"It's a long story." I zip and button my slacks.

"But they're not his family?" She looks quizzically at the photos again and then at me.

"Well, those two could have been." I point at the picture of Cuddy and Rachel.

"What happened?"

"Hey, I thought you didn't like him."

"I was just worried before but... he's interesting," she says. "And he's your friend."

Friend? Are we friends? I have no idea.

* * *

Over the next day, the patient's condition improves as he recovers from the surgeries. Including the one that was my fault. It's hard for me to face him and his fiancée hates whenever I check on him, but I can't run away. I'm responsible for making things worse and I should do whatever I can to help him.

* * *

**Friday**

A man in a suit stops me in the hall on the way to Kevin's room. He doesn't work here and I doubt he's a patient. "Are you Dr Hadley?" he asks, hand on my arm. I try not to grimace. I hate it when people I don't know touch me without warning.

"Yeah," I reflexively answer.

"I'm Detective Tritter with the New Jersey police," he says. "Dr James Wilson was a friend of yours, correct?"

"Yes... may I ask what this is about?" I recover from the shock of him stopping me. He looks about early thirties. Probably around my age.

"He was found dead last week in a California motel room under suspicious circumstances."

"What do you mean suspicious circumstances?"

"His body was discovered by a motel maid, who promptly called the police. State troopers ID'd him by his driver's licence. The empty needle and other drug paraphernalia found beside him, including a bag that contained about a gram of heroin, made it clear this was an overdose."

My heart plummets, then starts pounding in my chest. Oh my God. House.

"I... I don't understand." I fight to keep my composure. "What's suspicious about that?"

"There was a second syringe, unused, full. I don't think he was alone."

Of course he wasn't. This isn't good. "What do you mean?"

He pulls a notepad from his suit jacket pocket and scans through it. "He was staying in a room with two single beds. Motel manager claims he checked in with another man about a week prior to the incident. They both had motorcycles. Of course, around the time his body was discovered there was only one motorcycle in the parking lot and no sign of the other man."

He pauses for a moment before speaking again. "I think the other man is the key to what happened."

"I'm sorry. I don't know anything about that," I lie in the most casual tone I can muster.

"I've learned that Dr Wilson had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and had been given only five months to live. Not long after his diagnosis, he simply disappeared. I've already questioned his ex-wives and they hadn't seen or heard from him after that and knew nothing of his whereabouts." He flips pages in his notepad, then looks up at me. "When was the last time you saw Dr Wilson?"

"After the funeral—House—Dr Gregory House's funeral."

"Gregory House." He sucks his lips into his mouth in a pout. "I've heard of him. My uncle once worked a case involving him."

I've got no idea what he's referring to, but it doesn't surprise me House would've had other run-ins with the law.

"So, you say the last time you saw him was after Dr House's funeral. Does that mean he spoke with you before he disappeared?"

Actually, he did. It's still etched vividly in my memory. I'd just come home from the funeral and my phone buzzed. It was a text from Wilson. He told me to meet him.

* * *

**Spring 2012 - 5 months ago**

I stride through the door of the same café where I'd met him about a week ago. He's at the same table, hands clasped together and a neutral expression on his face. Not what I'd expect after attending his best friend's funeral. It was strange the way he suddenly took off earlier during the service after fiddling with his phone.

He looks up as I approach.

"I'm glad you came." He smiles.

I sit down on the seat across from his. "Is everything okay? I mean, I know it's not, but... you know what I mean... right?" Wow, I sound like an idiot. My head's still a mess. I just can't believe House is gone.

"I wanted to say goodbye." Wilson's eyes glisten now.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm going away, on a trip. I probably won't be coming back."

"Oh." The surprise hits me and needs a few moments to settle in. "Where are you going?"

"Afraid I can't say."

I want to ask why, but I can't. He must be processing so many emotions right now. If he just needs to hop across the world alone, with no one to answer to, and enjoy what time he has left, I'm not going to question that.

I swallow hard and give a slight nod. "I understand."

"I thought you would." He smiles again, though his eyes are still glassy.

"Who else have you told?"

"Just you."

The astonishment must be plain on my face. "Why?" I can't stop myself from asking.

"Because I knew you wouldn't try to stop me."

I don't know what to say. Too many different things are flying through my head. We stare at each other in silence for a few moments.

A waitress comes up. "What can I get you?"

"Oh, that's okay, I was just leaving." Wilson stands and slides out from the table.

She turns to me. I answer before she can ask. "I'm leaving too."

"All right, then..."She flashes an awkward smile at us, then walks off.

We're in the same staring deadlock again, but standing.

"You were a good doctor," Wilson finally says. "I know House thought so too. He enjoyed having you on his team... and you might not believe me, but he had a special respect for you." His face saddens again. "I'll miss you... and everyone. But this is something I have to do."

"It's okay." I hold in the sorrow swirling inside me and force a smile, but I doubt it looks convincing. "You don't need to explain yourself."

A tear escapes his eye and rolls down. He throws his arms around me. "Thank you."

I hug him back and we stand like that for the longest time, communicating everything that can't be put into words. I wish he didn't have cancer. I wish House was okay. I wish none of this had ever happened.

But that's life. It sucks. It's not fair. And it's no one's fault.

* * *

**Autumn 2012 - Present**

"He told me goodbye," I say truthfully. "He was going away."

"And you didn't ask him where he was going?" The detective squints at me and taps his pen against his notepad.

"No." I look to a couple of nurses passing in the hall. "It wasn't any of my business."

"This, um, wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that you, yourself, have been diagnosed with a terminal illness, would it?"

It's as if the pen in his hand has been stabbed in my throat. "No, what are you talking about?" I struggle to keep my voice calm. How the hell does he know about that?

"Well, it seems to me that you related to his situation."

"I'm sorry, I don't see what this has to do with the investigation."

There's an awkward silence before he changes the topic.

"Did you have any reason to believe Dr Wilson wasn't going on this trip alone?"

"No."

"And you wouldn't have any idea who he was with at the time of his death?"

"No."

He scribbles in his notepad, then looks up again. "Well, you've been very helpful." I can't quite tell if that's sarcasm or not. "I'm sure we'll locate the motorcycle soon."

"The motorcycle?"

"The one the other man rode. It was registered to Dr Wilson and we know the licence plate number. I've got a hunch it's back in Jersey."

My stomach knots up. It's parked outside my row house. Why is he telling me this? There's no way he could know.

"I'll be in touch." His lips curl smugly before he walks away, towards the elevators.

Great. House won't like it, but I need to ditch that bike.

* * *

The conference room is empty, but Chase is in his office and his eyes are on me as I burst through the door beside his. I strip off my lab coat and replace it with my leather jacket.

"Is something the matter?" he asks, stepping through the door that joins the two rooms. "I thought you were checking on the patient."

My arm gets stuck in the sleeve. "Sorry, I've gotta go," I say, wriggling.

_Rattle, rattle, rattle, plop, plop_. The distinct sound of a bottle of pills falling to the carpet. The morphine. Shit.

"What's that?"

"Nothing... it's for a patient." I drop to scoop it up.

Before I can, Chase's hand is on top of mine, on top of the bottle. I close my eyes in a long blink. No use trying to hide it now. We stand and I let him see it.

"Jonathan Chuffart." He reads the name on the bottle. "Why carry a patient's prescription around?"

"It's complicated."

His brows draw together and his mouth forms a frown. He sets his hand on mine again. "You're not getting into something serious again, are you?"

I'm not sure whether he means using or euthanising.

"No. It's nothing like that."

"Then what is it?"

"The patient probably won't like it if I tell you."

"Well, I can't do anything about that, but I won't tell anyone else." His face is sincere. "You have my word."

I sigh."We'd better sit down." I head to the table.

* * *

After giving House his nightly pill and waiting for him to fall asleep, I manage to swipe his key and slip out. Chase meets me out front of my house.

"I have to see him." He goes for the steps, but I move in front of him.

"Not right now. He's asleep and we need to do this first."

He looks at the door for a few moments, then backs away. "You're right."

He returns to his car, pausing before sliding in, and watches me hop on the bike. "I take it you've got some experience," he says.

"Yeah."

"Not surprised."

The engine roars as I lead the way, surging down the street lined with upper-middle class row houses. It's fairly dead at this time of night. Peaceful. Free. The cool night air brushes my face, tosses my hair about. It feels good. I can't resist building up speed, screeching around the corner. Chase's expression in my head makes me smile. I check in the mirror. He's struggling to keep up.

I pause at the red-light right where the string of buildings comes to a close and the park begins. His car closes the distance, pulls up beside me. He gives me the look I knew he would. "Where are we headed?" he yells through his open window. "You didn't really explain your plan."

"You'll see," I call back over the rumbling engine.

The light flashes green. With another roar, the bike bursts forwards. Chase drifts behind. We cut through the commercial district and fly past strips of businesses and small shops. At the next light, he catches up again.

"You're slow!" I shout. "Looking forward to your date with Park?"

"I don't even know where we're going! And it's not a date!"

I smirk and push ahead. He tries harder to pass me.

Another light. "I just felt sorry for her, y'know! She's weird, but she's a nice girl," he calls.

"Nah, you're into her!" I laugh. "It's okay, no need to be ashamed! She's actually cute in a dorky sort of way!"

I'm not quite sure how or why, but we've made this a game. Everything else has crumbled away and fallen into a dark corner of my mind and there's just groaning engines, glowing street-lights, the wind in my hair, me teasing him at every stop. Fun.

But, like all things, it comes to an end. The buildings transform the further we race, until they've turned into dirty, cracked brick and boarded up windows, and suddenly the streets aren't so empty. Tough looking guys in baggy jeans swagger about in groups. Girls in gaudy leopard print mini-skirts haunt the corners.

I pull to a stop and cut the engine, hop off, and wait until Chase rolls up beside me.

"You lose," I say, getting in his car.

"No fair. I didn't know where the finish line was." His lips stretch into a broad grin. He reaches into his glove box and rummages. "Might wanna use this." He holds out a hairbrush, chuckling, and tilts the mirror for me. I look ridiculous. I can't help laughing a bit at myself.

"So... we're just ditching it here?" he asks as I tame the frizz back into smooth, straight stands.

"Yeah, it won't last long."

"Oh. Good idea." He backs the car away so we can watch from a safe distance.

We're bathed in shadows, a comfortable sanctuary amidst the filth, graffiti, booming of hip-hop bass, and distant police sirens. A few moments pass, our eyes on the bike and shady figures slinking between the alleyways.

"How did House survive?" Chase suddenly asks. The air turns serious again.

"No idea... but... I'm glad."

"Me too," he says after a couple of seconds.

"Did that detective question you too?" I ask.

"A little..." He turns to face me. "...but from the way it sounds, he's singled you out for some reason."

"He knew about... my Huntington's." I glance at the floor of the car for a moment. "Makes me wonder what else he knows about me."

Chase's brows draw together in puzzlement. "I didn't tell him anything."

"No, I knew it wouldn't be you. I trust you." I give him a reassuring look. "But someone did."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Bright light. It glares painfully. I squint as bleary figures come around to the front of the couch. Snug jeans, suspenders over layered tops; long, straight brown hair, sharp jaw-line. Thirteen. And a guy; short blonde hair and full lips. He's in a buttoned shirt tucked into jeans with a belt. Chase, glowering like a sad puppy. What the hell is he doing here?

"Sorry," Thirteen says. "I had to tell him."

"What?" I pull myself upright. "You should be apologising for interrupting my sleep."

Chase is tearing up.

"Oh, so not only did I get woken up at 4AM, but—" He latches onto me mid-sentence. "—I have to endure this awkwardness." I'm as stiff as a board.

Thirteen glimmers with one of those subdued half-smiles she makes without showing her teeth. Of course she'd enjoy watching this.

"So, apparently, thinking I was gone forever made you feel all warm and fuzzy about me again. Dying changes everything, huh?"

Chase pulls back, grinning like a moron. He doesn't care about the snarky comment.

"There's something I need to tell you," Thirteen starts. "A detective questioned me today..." Her gaze drifts to the floor. "...about Wilson. They're investigating his..." She doesn't finish.

It's so annoying when people do that. "You know tiptoeing around like that doesn't make it any better," I snap. "His death. Just say it. He's dead, just a mound of cold, decomposing flesh."

They both cringe like I'm the worst sort of human garbage. She continues after a moment. "They know about him having two motorcycles registered in his name. They're searching for yours. So, um... you're not gonna like it, but we had to ditch it."

A sudden heat swells in my body. She got rid of my bike while I was sleeping? I push the blanket away from my legs and stand, get in her face."What, is your name cutthroat bitch now?"

"Look, she just wanted to protect you," Chase says, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"They were going to find it." She stands her ground, a stubborn look on her face. She's not sorry. She's not afraid. "They'd find out you're still alive. They'd know it was you with him. You'd go back to prison."

"I don't need protection!"

"Yeah, you do." Chase squeezes. I swat his hand away. "People care about you. And you should just accept that."

"I get why you're pissed off," Thirteen says. "That bike was the only thing you had left of Wilson."

They're smothering me. Choking me with all their stupid fussing, and fretting, and concern. "Just fuck off. Both of you."

They're unfazed. "I know what you did." Thirteen's striking eyes pierce through me. "And I think I know why you came to me."

I can't say anything. I want to grab my cane and take a swing at both of them, but I can't. Even I know that would be wrong. I'm defenceless. I can't let them know that.

I step back, sit on the couch again. "You're wrong. About everything. I just didn't want to lose my only means of transportation." I lie down and throw my blanket over myself. "I'm going back to sleep. You can move on, or you can just hover over me and breathe heavily like creepy stalkers, your choice."

"Such a child," Chase mutters. "Some things never change."

"It's okay. We know the truth."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Saturday**

All five of us are in the conference room, called in because the patient has had an episode of aphasia—in other words, for a while he suddenly lost the ability speak—and his tremors and uncontrolled movements are worsening. Clearly something else is wrong with him.

Chase adds aphasia, then taps the end of the dry erase marker against the whiteboard. Nausea, vomiting, and migraine have been crossed off. Apparently, those were from the meningioma, at least. This guy must have won the lottery.

"We should test for lupus." Park shifts her glasses.

"No family history of auto-immune," Adams says, crossing her legs.

"Everybody lies." Park's already picked up the motto I see.

"Progression is too rapid," I say.

"Well, we haven't got a lot of options right now, so go ahead and run ANA for lupus." Chase turns towards us at the table. "But... start him on IVIG and check his lungs for small-cell carcinoma."

Adams, Park, and Taub trade confused glances. "So we remove a benign tumour from his brain and you still think it's cancer?" Adams asks.

"He's right." I stand. "Paraneoplastic would fit."

"He's young and not a smoker. I highly doubt—"

"—I'll start him on the IVIG." I go for the door.

"Wow, you and Thirteen have certainly been in agreement about this case," Adams remarks. "You two must be close."

I pause, fingers at the door handle, not very amused. Why does this matter?

"They're not dating or anything," Park says. "Thirteen's gay."

"As if that's the only reason we're not involved." Chase snickers.

My eyes roll and I turn back. "Actually, I'm bi, but yes, I've got a girlfriend, and that's really none of anyone's business. Now can we treat the patient before it's too late?"

"Yeah, let's do that." Chase sets down the marker.

I hurry down the hall ahead of the others. The elevator doors come open to reveal a familiar face; round, full brows, blue eyes. Detective Tritter.

"Dr Hadley. Sorry if I'm interrupting anything..." Somehow his apology sounds completely insincere. "...but I'd like to have a word with you again."

The others have caught up. They don't say anything, just exchange looks. They know him. They've all been questioned already.

I have no choice. I follow him as they step inside the elevator to go off and start the treatment and run the tests. He leads me around the corner from the conference room and Chase's office to the office that has apparently been in disuse for about five months. His name is still on the door. Dr James Wilson.

Everything is the way he left it. I can't believe Foreman hasn't cleaned it all out and made room for someone else in here. He's not one for wasting space.

"Have a seat, Dr Hadley." The detective heads over to Wilson's desk and sits down. My jaw clenches.

"I'd rather stand." I stay hovering by the door.

"Does being in here make you uncomfortable?"

What an ass. "Of course it does," I answer honestly.

"Is that because you feel guilt over his death?"

I don't show the confusion on my face. "No, it's depressing that he's gone, but why would I feel guilt?"

"You, um, you have a record." He props his feet up on the desk. I glare at him. He smirks. "You were incarcerated for six months. Seems it was the result of an incident involving narcotics and a man dying."

I bite my lip. Is this why he's singling me out? Because I've got a criminal record?

"Yeah, I over-prescribed and I've served my time. What has this got to do with anything?"

"Hmm." He laughs. "I don't think this was a simple case of over-prescribing. I think it was more personal. The man who died was your brother."

My heart catches. My mouth goes dry.

"You sure you don't want to sit down?"

Shit. My legs are shaking. I don't say anything. I lean back against the door frame and try to hold still.

"Like you, he had Huntington's Chorea. He was in the advanced stages. Must have been a nightmare staring your own future in the face like that, and for it to be your brother's face. That had to be hell."

"This has nothing to do with your investigation," I say between clenched teeth.

"Oh, no you're wrong. It has everything to do with my investigation." He draws a cigarette from his suit jacket, then a lighter. "Now, they couldn't prove it, but we both know you were the one who pushed that plunger."

He lights the cigarette. I want nothing more than to fly at him and stomp it out.

"And, you know what? I think you were there with Dr Wilson at the end."

"What? That's ridiculous," I scoff. "You said the person with him was a man."

"Well, actually no one got a good look and he, or she, as the case may be, was wearing a helmet."

"I've been in the city for the past five months!" That came out before I could think. Actually, that's not strictly true. I've accompanied Aya to a few out-of-state art exhibitions.

"I've checked around, Dr Hadley." He puffs on his cigarette. "There's no record of that. You just came back to work on Monday." Smoke pours out as he exhales. "It fits. You come back from your trip overseas to disappear with Dr Wilson, then reappear conveniently just after he turns up dead."

I can't believe it. I was afraid for House. I thought they suspected he was alive, but the whole time this detective has been trying to pin Wilson's death on me.

"There's proof. I've got mail; boxes from items ordered online. My neighbours have seen me. My partner will confirm I've never been away."

"That can all be neatly arranged to resemble proof. Doesn't mean it will hold up." He takes another drag. "We know the bike was outside your house."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"No use lying." He holds up his phone and flicks to a photo that shows House's bike parked in front of my place.

How the hell is that possible?

"I had a couple of guys outside, keeping an eye on you as soon as I checked out all of Dr Wilson's associates. You seemed the most likely to be involved."

My hands curl into fists. "You're not intimidating me because I haven't done anything wrong."

"Oh, of course not, depending on your moral outlook, but I think you've done something very illegal. Multiple things, actually."

"Put that out. This is a hospital," I snap. "And get the hell out of my friend's office."

He complies with a smirk. "I'll be visiting you again soon." His shoulder brushes me on the way by. It makes me grimace.

* * *

"Negative ANA for lupus," Park says, all of us standing in Chase's office, facing him at his desk.

"Lungs are clean." Taub holds up an X-ray. "And no sign of improvement on the IVIG."

"It could still be paraneoplastic." Chase fiddles with the over-sized tennis ball. "The IVIG might just need more time to work."

"Why are you so stuck on that theory?" Park asks.

"Because I've seen a case like this before." He bounces the ball to the wall, then catches it with everyone watching. "Get a full body MRI."

"All right. Just don't be too surprised if we don't find any cancer," Adams says. They head into the hall. I go into the conference room instead and sit at the table.

Chase sets down the ball and joins me. "Is something the matter? You've been quiet."

I let out a deep breath. "That detective cornered me earlier. He thinks I was the one with Wilson."

"Why?"

"He knows about my brother." I grab a pen from in front of me and clench it in my hand. "Wilson was an OD." My eyes flick to Chase's. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah."

"Given my record and the fact he had cops watching my place and got photos of the bike parked out front, I'm the prime suspect."

"Oh God..." He stares in shock for a moment. "But wait, how is that possible? Wilson was riding all around the country for five months. You've been here."

"I know. He says there's no solid proof." I roll the pen now, back and forth across the glass. "He's right. I haven't done anything since coming back from overseas that proves I've been here the whole time. And in fact, it's worse than that. I've gone with Aya to some art exhibitions and I know he'll find some way to twist that against me"

"Then I'm sure we can find a way to prove you were only away for the exhibitions. You've got me and Aya. We can both swear it."

"It won't work. You're my friend and now my boss. She's my girlfriend." I stand up, brush his hand with mine. "But thanks. That means a lot."

"We're gonna figure this out, okay?" His lips press tightly together, painting his face stern, unyielding, despite the trembling emotion in his eyes.

* * *

A couple of hours have passed. Chase and I are sitting at the table, going through photos and papers I've brought from home, trying to find something concrete.

"What about your bank?"

"I haven't been there since coming back."

"What about pictures on your phone? Your location could be marked with GPS."

I laugh bitterly. "I always turn off location tracking. It's creepy."

"Yeah, I get it." He sighs.

"Besides... we honestly haven't been snapping many pictures the past five months. We did all that in Mykonos. Since then we've mostly been at home. What is there to photograph?"

The others return to the conference room.

"What are you two doing?" Park asks.

"It's nothing." I hurriedly gather everything up into a stack and flip it over.

"So, what have you found?" Chase looks to them.

"Nothing." Taub sighs.

"What, there was no sign of a mass anywhere in his body?"

"Um, no, we didn't do the MRI," Adams clarifies.

"What do you mean? What happened?"

"Couldn't do it." Taub crosses his arms. "Patient refused."

Chase's mouth falls open a bit. "You mean he refused a harmless, non-invasive procedure?"

"Yeah."

"Did you explain to him that his brain is rapidly deteriorating and it's very likely he'll be dead soon if we don't find the reason?"

"Yeah." The others exchange a glance.

"But the problem is..." Adams says, "he's showing improvement now."

Chase can't seem to hide a grin. He's cracked the puzzle. Then his face returns to seriousness. "But you have told him this isn't a fix? That if he's got cancer, it'll metastasise. We need to find it before it's too late, if it's not already."

"Told him that too." Taub rubs his still-bandaged nose. "Didn't seem to care."

"His neurological function is compromised. We should override him. Go to Foreman."

"Already tried that," Park says. "He wouldn't approve it."

"Why not?"

"Well, seeing as how someone pissed off the fiancée..." Taub looks my way. "...and she's wanting to sue the hospital already, Foreman says we can't push for this."

Chase scoffs. "She's gonna be a lot more pissed off when he's dead."

"I know," Adams says, "but that's her decision and there's nothing we can do."

"What about family?" Park asks. "Maybe his parents will help."

"Yeah, good idea," Chase says. "Try to get in touch with them."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"You're early." I pull myself up as Thirteen walks through the door. "Patient's not dead or you'd still be out sulking." I turn to look over the back of the couch. "Good news?"

Her face is unflinching, like a mask. She doesn't reach in her jacket pocket. "If you consider that he's got another tumour, but won't let us do an MRI to find it, his fiancée's still pissed off at me, and I'm now the prime suspect in a murder investigation good news, then yeah."

I don't ask her what she means. I don't need to.

She steps up beside the arm of the couch. "You need to go."

It's as if a 12 gauge needle is jabbing into my jugular with those words. She wants to get rid of me. She's had enough. She's tossing me aside like everyone else. I knew it would happen. Why did I trust her? Why did I think she was any different?

"The cops are watching my place. It's not safe for you to be here."

Oh.

"Come on, while Chase is distracting them, let's go." She jingles her keys in her hand.

"Where?" I grab my cane and limp after her.

"Somewhere safe," she says, ushering me out the door.

"Lesbian bar? I don't think they'll let me bring a sleeping bag in."

A tiny smirk twists her lips despite the mood. We step down the small staircase and head for her car.

"So, do I get my pill if I'm good?"

She doesn't answer. We slide in and close the doors, she starts the engine and gets us moving. Through the rear-view mirror, I catch a glimpse of Chase's figure under the street-lights, standing by a parked car.

"I think I deserve to hear the story," she says, gaze on the road.

"You said you know what I did. Why does it matter?"

"Because  _I_  told  _you_." Her jaw clenches. "And because I'm looking at the possibility of going to prison for it."

"You know what I did," I repeat sterner. "He's gone. That's all that matters."

"No story, no morphine." She turns the car around a corner.

The throbbing in my leg reminds me that the previous night's painkiller has long since worn off.

"Fine." I pound my cane to the floor of the car. "He was bad off, so I scored us a nice big bag of H, cooked it up, had it all ready so we could both ride into oblivion. Did him, then changed my mind and took off. You know the rest."

"I can't believe it." Thirteen cuts me with her eyes. "You'd rather sound entirely shallow than just admit you made a promise to him."

My fingers tighten around my cane.

Red light. The car pulls to a stop. "I heard you the other night." She looks in front and then at me in alternating intervals. "So don't deny it."

"What does it matter?" I snap.

"Because you won't say it." She presses her foot on the pedal and we lurch forwards. "Not so fun when the positions are reversed, is it?"

I want to make a witty quip, perhaps with a bit of sexual innuendo, maybe a crack about how it's good she likes it both ways, but it won't travel from my brain to my tongue. It's as if the wiring has been severed.

The pain's building, from a dull ache to a sharp rending that goes down to the bone. I rub through my jeans at the place where the muscle used to be. "All right. I promised him I'd go on. Just give me the damn pill."

"Why? What made you cave?"

"Knowing this crap, this is worth going back to prison for?"

"No, but it's better than nothing."

"I've got a better question. One for you." The pain seems to dull for a moment with the new incentive. "Why are you doing this? Why didn't you just give me up?"

Before she can answer, I cut her off. "Oh, wait, you think by sacrificing yourself, there'll be some great reward, your life will have had meaning. You think a noble act will change everything."

A stifled laugh exits her throat. "No, I don't."

"You're a moron." I tap my cane. The movement helps a bit. "You'd rather waste what time you have left on this. You'd rather throw it all away."

"Wow, you're one to talk about throwing it all away." Her eyes glint at me through the dark. "Or should I say  _flushing_  it all away?"

And silence. It's just the sound of the tyres rolling over the asphalt, the wind against the sides of the car.

"Take it," she says after a while, pill on her palm. "I'm not a sadist."

* * *

It's a little past eight o'clock when we pull into the drive. I know where I am now.

"You idiot," I say. "You really expect me to go in there unannounced in the middle of the night? If you wanted me arrested, you should've just turned me in."

"She won't call the police. Just come with me." Thirteen shifts the car into park, pulls her keys out, and pops open the door.

Something makes me follow her.

She presses her index finger to the doorbell. It rings in a drab five note melody.

"Why her?" I hiss as footsteps draw near.

"You know why."

The door pops open. No one's there. Oh wait. A dark-haired little girl in pyjamas smiles, hand on the knob, swinging the door back and forth ever so slightly. "House!"

"Hi, Rachel," I force out.

"Who's this girl?" Rachel's cheeks puff up. "She's not Wilson."

No shit. "Oh, aren't you adorable?" I say, easing the metaphorical punch to the gut with sarcasm.

"My name is Re—"

"—Thirteen," I cut her off.

"What a weird name." Rachel giggles. She's grown.

Thirteen smiles at her and gives me a glare that's only half serious.

"Rachel!" calls a very distinct female voice, one I haven't heard in over a year. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be brushing your tee—" She stops mid-sentence as she steps into the foyer and our eyes meet. She's speechless, frozen in place, dressed in one of her usual low-cut tops and ass-hugging skirts. Nice to see that hasn't changed.

"Mommy, House is here!" Rachel bounces up and down, tugging at my jacket sleeve. "Can he come in and play?"

It takes her a moment to register that. "N—no, sweetie. It's time for bed. Go and get your teeth brushed."

"But I wanna play with House." She stares up at me, wide-eyed.

"You should listen to your mom," I say softly, prying her fingers off my sleeve.

"Where's Wilson?" she asks in a sing-song voice.

"Gone away."

"When will he be back?"

"Sweetie, come on." Cuddy comes over and grabs Rachel's hand, gaze locked on me as she leads her away.

"Lisa, oh my God." Julia steps in from the other room. "Do you want me to call—"

"—No," Cuddy says, gently ushering her daughter towards her sister."Just make sure Rachel brushes her teeth and gets to bed."

"Okay." She takes the little girl's hand and they disappear upstairs.

"House." Cuddy's focus returns to me. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Thirteen brought me." I glance over to her. "Apparently she's considering a new career in relationship counselling."

Thirteen gives a not-so-terribly amused smile.

"You're not dead," Cuddy says, still recovering from the shock.

"You sound disappointed." I tap my cane twice against the door frame. "Do restraining orders stay in effect after death?"

She rakes her fingers through her wavy hair. "This is just like you. What did you do? Did you plan this? Is this all some twisted scheme to get me to take you back?"

"Oh, you don't really want to hear the whole story, do you? We'll have to go and sit down on the couch and everything."

"It wasn't a scheme. He's just an idiot," Thirteen says. "And he needs you right now."

Cuddy scoffs. "He needs me? Typical. He's sucked Wilson dry and now I'm just supposed to take over, right?"

I have no argument for that. Maybe because somewhere deep inside I know it's true.

"I don't even want to know what he's done to rope you into enabling him like this."

Thirteen doesn't say anything in response and instead just looks between us. "You two have a lot to talk over. I'll be in the car." She starts to walk away.

I catch her arm. "If one of us ends up dead tonight, it's on you."

"Just don't do anything stupid. Tell her the truth," she says, then heads off.

"She's right," says another voice. "Tell Cuddy the truth. Tell her how you killed Wilson and you're letting Thirteen take the fall for it just so you can lie around all day feeling sorry for yourself."

I knew it would happen. I'm seeing her again. Amber.

"Tell her you're high on morphine," she whispers in my ear. "You know how she feels about narcotics."

"Yeah... now you've moved up to the precious, the one opioid to rule them all." Kutner. "If she had a problem with vicodin, what's she gonna think now?"

"House?" Cuddy comes back into focus behind him.

"Wilson's dead."

It hits her. Her eyes turn glassy. "When?"

"About eight days ago."

Her hands fly to her mouth to cover it as she falls back against the wall.

"I killed him."

Her eyes widen. Then she straightens up, face harshening. "What the hell do you mean, you killed him?"

"He was suffering. I ended it."

"Oh God..." She comes closer. I think she's going to take me into her arms. She wants to. She doesn't. Instead, she stares, searching for something.

"You're back on vicodin." She flicks a tear away.

"No."

The pain etched on her face intensifies. "You're gonna lie to me, even now?"

"You said it yourself, I can't change."

"Tell her..." Amber whispers again.

"It's not vicodin."

"House, I can't do this." She backs away. "Not again."

"Why did you drive through her dining room?" Kutner asks, lurking beside her.

"I don't know!" I slam my cane into the floor.

Her expression contorts, but she doesn't speak.

Resignation becomes rage. "It was your fault! All of it!" I glare at her.

She crosses her arms, guarding herself in a defensive posture. "Fine! It was my fault! Are you happy now?!"

"No, it was your fault because I did change! You were just too blind to see it!" I close the distance between us again. "I was trying! It was never enough for you!"

"You're right! It wasn't! And it never will be, House! You couldn't be there for me when I could've been dying, you were the same selfish bastard you've always been! And then you just popped vicodin and lied to me!"

"You still love me! Admit it!" I grab her by the shoulder.

"Just get out!" She pushes me off, tears rolling down. "Go before I have to call the police."

This was stupid. Why did I even go along with it? Things can never go back. And I don't want them to.

I turn around, limp out the door, down the path.

"Who needs her, when you've got me?" Amber's breath is hot on my ear.

"And me," Kutner says, as if it's a game.

I ignore them.

"You  _are_  a sadist." My eyes meet Thirteen's as I climb in the car. "You didn't think this would work out. You didn't even hope it would. You just wanted to make me as vulnerable as you are."

"Wow." She forces a laugh. "I don't even know what to say to that."

"You wanted me miserable."

"You're already miserable." She turns the key in the ignition and the engine fires up.

"So are you."

"She's not miserable," says Kutner from the back seat. "She's got a hot girlfriend."

Amber is beside him. "You only like to believe she's miserable so you've got a comrade in misery."

I wish they'd go away. I look at Thirteen again. "You were just hoping to see me cry."

"As if you're capable of it." She backs the car out of the driveway and turns onto the road.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

I close the hotel room door behind us. House limps to the closer of the two single beds and sits. "You're a moron," he says for the second time tonight as he hooks his cane on the headboard.

"Why, because instead of being at home with the girl who loves me, I'm trying to help you?" I sit down on my bed and take off my jacket and boots. "Guess I am."

I called Aya before we got here, said I wouldn't be coming home tonight. She's worried, but understands.

"Just shut the hell up!" He closes his eyes.

"Um, what?"

"Not you."

"You're hallucinating again." My mouth stays open for a moment as I stare off across the room. What the hell is wrong with me? I wasn't thinking.

"I should've known. I should never have given you morphine."

"I don't need you to do this." He looks at me. "I don't need you trying to fix my life."

"You came to me."

"Because I thought it might be fun for a while."

"No, you wanted help," I say. "Stop deflecting and admit it."

"Oh, I get it." His tone turns abrasive. "If you can fix me, then you're not broken. That's what this is all about." He stands up, steps in front of me. "You're not Wilson!"

I struggle not to laugh. "Never intended to be."

His scowl deepens at my amusement. "You're just as screwed up as I am."

"Really?"

"The fact you're here right now proves that," he says. "So, you've got someone who will put up with you for now. You keep doing crap like this, you won't have her. You'll die alone."

"Hey, I thought  _you_  were going to be there." My mouth twists into a bitter smile. "But seriously, relationship advice from the guy who drove a car through his girlfriend's dining room. Priceless." I push my hair behind my ear. "You're just scared. This is your defence mechanism."

"Oh, wanna talk about defence mechanisms,  _Thirteen_? Never seemed to mind being called by a number. Maybe because deep down you're afraid that's all you are."

"You're pathetic." I glare up at him. "Trying your hardest to make me this about me—to make me feel like shit—all because you won't allow yourself to conceive of the idea that just maybe someone else in this world other than Wilson is capable of giving a damn about you."

"Just go home." His gaze is intense and seething. But there's something else. A glint of weakness. "Leave me the hell alone."

"No." I stay planted on the bed.

His eyes go distant. His focus drifts by the TV, then by the door to the bathroom. His hallucinations are talking.

"You're seeing Amber again, aren't you?"

He looks down at me. He doesn't say anything, but something's telling me I'm right. After a moment, he backs to his own bed and plops down.

It's going to be a long night. We won't be talking any more, but I doubt either of us will get much sleep.

* * *

**Sunday**

_Ring. Ring._  My eyes come open, hazy. It's my phone. I manage to stretch my arm over to the night-stand without lifting from the pillow. The digits on the clock come into focus. 7:32. House glances at me from his bed.

"Hello?" I say, still only half-conscious.

"Is everything okay?" Chase's voice. "Didn't hear back from you last night."

"Yeah..." I shake my head in an attempt to wake up. "Had to a get a hotel room."

"Went that badly, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we've managed to get in touch with Kevin's parents." His tone is decidedly negative.

Great. What now?

"They, er, said they don't have a son. And they were quite adamant. Apparently, he's been disowned. Which is pretty ridiculous because he seems so normal. I can't imagine what he's done to deserve that." He pauses for a moment. "Since he still won't let us do the MRI, I've run his blood again to check for tumour markers that could point us in the right direction."

"Find anything?"

"Yeah, but it's weird. Elevated CA-125."

I bolt upright in bed. Suddenly, all the pieces have come together. I know what this is. Can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. "I need to talk to him. I'll be right there."

I hang up. There's a dilemma. House. Can't leave him here, can't bring him to the hospital, can't take him back to my place, probably isn't a good idea to take him to Chase's either. And I'd rather not involve anyone else at work. I've got an idea.

I grab his jacket from the bed post and toss it on top of him. "Come on, we've gotta go."

* * *

"So... who lives here?" House taps the glass with his cane as we pull to a stop at the kerb in front of an average two-storey home. It sits along a suburban street adorned with various trees whose yellowed leaves are falling and floating on the wind.

He'll find out soon enough. I don't look forward to that, or leaving them alone together, but I have no choice. We step out of the car and a drizzle touches my hand. More of them fall from the overcast sky, pelting us as we make our way to the door. I give a couple of knocks, mentally bracing myself.

A clean-cut, salt-and-pepper haired man in his sixties, dressed in a burgundy cardigan and grey slacks answers the door. "Remy?"

House's eyes narrow. He scans the man up and down, then me.

I sigh. No avoiding it. I lean in and hug him. House must be puzzling over the details in his head.

"Is everything okay? How are you feeling?" He pulls back, looking at me for a moment.

"I'm fine, Dad," I say, watching House's reaction. "Everything's fine."

"I'm glad." He smiles, then moves to let us in.

We stop in the foyer. My dad glances at House.

"I'm sorry, this is Jonathan," I lie, figuring it's best to stick with the false name on the prescription bottle. "He's, um..." What the hell is he? He shifts with his cane, puffing his cheeks alternately. He's having fun. Or he's going to be. "...sort of a friend," I finish.

"Nice to meet you." Dad extends his hand to House. "I'm John, Remy's father."

House shakes it, a barely perceptible smirk at the corner of his mouth while he looks at me.

I roll my eyes.

"So, what brings you for a visit this morning?" Dad asks. "How about some peppermint tea?"

"Sorry, I'm in a hurry. I need to get to work, but um..." How to ask?

My eyes flick to the photos on the wall that paint our family happier than reality, then to award plaques belonging to me and my brother, then to the staircase, then to the ficus in the corner, then back to Dad. "Would you mind it if Jonathan stayed here for a few days? It's complicated, but, uh, he has no where to go right now."

He looks at House again, who's twirling his cane now, then leans in. "Of course, honey." He kisses my forehead. "Anything I can do for you."

It's been like this ever since I finally came clean about the diagnosis. He and my step mom moved here to be closer to me and he pretty much bends over backwards to please me now. I wish he wouldn't. It only reminds me how screwed up everything is. He's lost all of us to that damn disease. I'm all he has left.

* * *

"I think I know why you won't let us do the MRI, Kevin." His eyes follow me into the room as his fiancée bolts up from the bedside chair where she's been clutching his hand.

"I thought you were supposed to be off his case!" She glares, her hands on her hips. "Dr Foreman said he'd remove you!"

"I'm sorry, but this is important. We need to find the tumour."

Kevin looks down at the knit blanket covering him, then looks at his fiancée. A dusting of stubble covers his cheeks from being unable to shave for the past few days. "Sweetie, can you give us a moment alone?"

She makes a face that says he can't be serious. "Fine." She returns to his side, bends down and kisses his forehead. "If she does anything to bother you, just call me in, okay?"

She heads out of the room and slides the door closed behind her.

I take the seat beside the bed. There's the sound of rain splatting against the sides of the building. It's a downpour now. Drops streak down the windows across from us. "Your parents—"

"—You've talked to my parents?!" He strains to sit up straighter. "What did they tell you?!"

"Nothing." I lean forwards and steady him. "But it's okay. I know what you're afraid of."

"No, you don't." His expression is pained. "How could you know?"

"I've put the pieces the together. The testosterone prescription, the fact you won't let us do an MRI. And then there's the elevated CA-125 in your blood."

I've deliberately left out the part about his parents saying they don't have a son. He doesn't need to be reminded of their rejection.

He scrunches his brows. "What does that mean?"

"It's primarily indicative of ovarian cancer."

Anguish grips his features. His eyes tear up. He looks away, to the snaking rain on the glass. "No, no, that's impossible."

"Kevin, I understand how you must feel. It's uncomfortable, humiliating. And you're afraid of judgement, discrimination, having your identity attacked. I get that, okay? But I'll make sure you're treated with respect. I promise."

"Thanks... you're a good doctor," he says weakly after a moment. To be thanked by a patient you've nearly crippled. Confusing feeling. "But it's not just that." He clears his throat. "That's all been removed."

"Well, there is another possibility." I clasp my hands together on my lap. "It's rare, but even after removal, it's possible for cancer to grow on the peritoneum, the lining that covers the entire abdominal cavity and is actually made up of cells that are nearly identical to the surface of the ovaries."

He bites his lip, eyes on the rain again. "My mom... she had ovarian cancer. I never wanted that to happen to me. I thought I'd made sure it wouldn't."

"I can only imagine how you're feeling."

"That's actually worse than the fact I've just had a tumour removed from my brain, you know." He forces a laugh through. "What are the odds I'd have so many things wrong with me?"

"I know... it sucks." I glance out the window—the drops keep falling—then back to him. "But you can beat this," I say. His gaze meets mine. "And you know what? If it makes you feel any better, peritoneal cancer is very rare in typical men, but it's not impossible. Given your genes, there's a chance you might've gotten this regardless."

* * *

"So, let me get this straight." Taub sets his coffee mug on the table, where he and the others are sitting. "The patient's a woman? How is that possible? He has a man's voice and everything."

Dammit. I knew this would happen. I'd planned to only disclose what was strictly necessary, but they kept probing and, more or less, figured it out themselves.

"No, he's not a woman," I say exasperated, stood with my hands on the back of a chair, facing Taub and Adams. "And are you even a doctor? Testosterone means deep voice, facial hair, and so on. That receding hairline must be an anomaly because clearly you haven't been through puberty."

The door that joins the two rooms is open and Chase snickers at his desk, rolling the over-sized tennis ball in his hand.

"I'm not an idiot." Taub rubs a hand over his crown, as if more self-conscious of the thinning now that I've mentioned it. "But come on, this person looks completely like a guy."

"Don't say 'person' like that." I clench the back of the chair tighter. "He looks like a guy because he is a guy."

"No," Adams says, straightening up beside Taub. "Testosterone creates a deep voice, facial hair, and a male fat distribution pattern, making the patient look like a man, as you, yourself pointed out, but their DNA is still female."

" _His_  DNA isn't female. So, he's XX instead of XY. That doesn't mean much, really. Quite a few DSDs result in mismatched or unusual sex chromosomes."

"But the patient doesn't have an intersex condition."

"Not in the widely understood sense, no, but actually..." I glare at Adams. "...according to research on the subject, it may, in many cases, be a disorder of sex development that affects only key genes and regions of the brain."

"Arguing over this is stupid," Park says beside me. "But I was right." She looks at me with a satisfied expression. "The testosterone prescription was relevant."

"Not directly." I tap my fingers against the chair back.

She grabs a honey-glazed doughnut out of the box sat between us on the table and takes a bite. "But, yeah, I don't get why anyone would want to change their gender."

"He didn't change his gender." I let out a deep breath. "He changed his body to match his gender."

Chase stretches with a smile. "Hadley, try not to get too worked up, okay?"

"I'm not." I take my hands off the back of the chair. "I just want him to get the respect he deserves. People like him already avoid doctors like the plague as it is." I glance to the others at the table. "And with good reason."

Chase gets up from his desk and comes to join us. "Yeah, I see what you mean... but the most important thing is finding the tumour," he says. "Get a pelvic ultrasound."

"I'll do it." I go for the door.

* * *

"So, you're okay with freaks, then?" Kevin asks as I squeeze the ultrasound gel onto his pelvic region. His gown is rolled up, but his blanket covers everything below the space I need.

"You're not a freak." I look him in the eyes, reaching for the device.

"But a normal person like you must think I'm a mental case."

"I'm not so normal." I press the ultrasound device to his skin and it makes that distinctive pulsing noise. "And who really gets to decide what's normal, anyway?"

"W—What do you mean?" He laughs in disbelief, clearly in reaction to the first statement.

"I'm bi."

"Oh." He doesn't seem to know what to say.

I turn to the screen, studying the static for any signs of a mass. "Besides, I dated a guy like you once."

"But you left him in the end?"

"No." I glance over. "He broke up with me."

"I haven't told Sara," he says, a resigned expression on his face.

"Sort of figured you hadn't." My eyes flick back to the screen. "I understand why you didn't want to... and seeing as how she already knows you can't have kids, there's no reason you're obligated to, but it must be painful hiding that aspect of your past from her."

"Yeah... I'm just scared because she'll probably freak out and leave me. I don't want to lose her."

"She loves you." I smile at him. "I don't think she'll be happy you've kept this from her for so long, but the fact you've managed to do so also means there's no physical reason for her to care."

Found it. A mass to the left of his bladder. Chase should be able to get it out.

"There." I point and show him. "I don't know if you can see it, but we need to remove that. Then you'll go on chemo, which will suck, but you should be fine afterwards."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

I'm watching the surgery from above when my phone buzzes. Dad's number. It's gotta be House.

"Yeah?" I answer.

"Patient out of surgery yet?" His gravelly voice on the other end confirms my assumption.

I stare at the glass, rather than through it, for a moment. My own reflection etched with surprise bounces back at me. I shrug it off and find myself smiling faintly. "No."

"Aww, aren't you going to ask how I know he's in surgery?"

"Not interested." That's not true, but I never play House's games. At least not the way he wants me to.

"I overheard you and Chase this morning. Like all patients, this one's a liar."

I don't say anything. I've got a feeling I know where this is going. I focus in on Kevin on the table below, where Chase and the surgical team are working.

"Sure, his balls never dropped and they must have done a piss poor job making testosterone. He probably even had them cut off like he said." From House's tone, I can tell he's making his version of an amused expression. "Trouble is, he had the sort of balls that are actually supposed to stay in the abdomen. And they're not called testicles."

"Wow," I finally say.

"Oh, you didn't learn that in biology class?"

The edges of my lips curl upwards. "I'm just surprised you, of all people, are being so reasonable."

"Am I?"

"You're referring to him with male pronouns."

"And?"

"You're not going to drone on about how he's really a woman?"

"Well, if being born with ovaries wasn't enough to convince him, then who am I to say he is?"

My smile widens. "You know, that might just be the nicest thing you've ever said about a patient."

"Damn. I was trying to be a total ass."

The doors swing open and I turn from the glass pane to find Park striding in.

"I've gotta go. Talk to you later." I hang up.

"Who was that?" she asks.

My gaze drifts for a second. "My girlfriend."

"Oh." She steps up beside me. "Good work."

"For what?" I tuck my phone into my lab coat."You were right to not dismiss his prescription and Chase is the one who suggested it was paraneoplastic syndrome."

I feel like I've barely been involved in the case with everything else going on.

"Yeah, but if you hadn't figured out his situation, then we wouldn't have caught it." She looks down through the glass to the team toiling over the bloody incision. "I think it's good to have someone like you on the team. You have a unique perspective."

I give a faint smile. "So... how was your date with Chase?"

"Fun. He was running a bit late, so I was worried he wasn't coming after all, but he did and we had fun."

Yeah, he was running late because he was outside my place making small-talk with the cops so I could slip out with House. She doesn't need to know that.

"Did you make a move?" I glance to Chase below, who's hard at work extracting the tumour, then back to her.

Her eyes widen behind her thick-framed glasses. "Um... no."

"Well, I think you should go on the offence." I pat her shoulder.

"If you really think that'll work..."

"Give it a shot." I can't help smiling at Chase's expense. He places the gory mass in a container on the surgical tray, then gives us a thumbs up.

It's over. He's just got to sew him up now.

The doors swing open again. I expect Taub or Adams, but it's Detective Tritter. He has an oddly pleased expression on his face.

Great. What now?

"Dr Hadley," he says, standing in between the doors and holding them open. "I'd like you to come with me to the station to answer a few more questions."

"Can't I answer them here? My patient's just about to come out of surgery. I'd like to be here when he wakes up."

"I'm sure it won't take long."

I go to follow him out, Park watching. I've got a bad feeling about this.

* * *

I'm sitting opposite Detective Tritter at a metal table in the interrogation room.

"I'm calling my lawyer," I say, pulling my cellphone from my jacket pocket.

"Thought you might want to do that." He flips open the folder lying in front of him, then spins it so I can see.

My gaze drifts down to it as I dial. It's the police report from my arrest. And judging from the thickness, probably everything from the trial too. How the hell did he get this?

"It's all in here. And even if the judge let you off easy, it doesn't take a genius detective to see what really happened." He taps his fingers against the table surface. "Your father doesn't know, does he?"

I stop dialling, tighten the grasp on my phone.

"It'd be a real shame if this fell into his hands."

My nails dig into the plastic as my eyes narrow at Tritter. "You bastard."

The left corner of his lip pulls upwards.

"You can't get away with this." I glance to the two-way mirror.

His smirk widens. "No one's watching. It would be the word of a convicted criminal against mine."

Heat grips my entire body. Crooked cops piss me off. Feeling powerless pisses me off even more.

But I can't hurt Dad. It was all I could do to keep it from him. I had to. Knowing what I'd done would kill him. And now... for it to come out like this, after I lied to him again and again.

I shove my phone back into my pocket.

"I expect you'll be cooperating, then."

* * *

"I'm going to begin asking the questions now. Simply answer yes or no," says the short-haired woman operating the polygraph. She reads from a paper no doubt prepared by Tritter.

"Are you currently employed at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital?"

"Yes," I answer. The pen jumps and scratches against the paper, in sharp contrast to the constant humming of the fluorescent light hanging above our heads.

"Is your name Remy Hadley?"

"Yes."

She marks on the page as it flows from the machine.

"Were you born in 1981?"

"Yes."

"Is it true that since returning to the country, you first came back to work on Monday of this week?"

"Yes."

"Were you employed any where prior to this?"

"No." I know what he's doing here.

"Have you been out of the state at any time over the past five months?"

He's trapping me. I've got to admit to it now, or I'll be lying. Yet if I say yes, he's not letting me explain the reason. I clench my jaw. "Yes, but that was—"

"—Yes or no only please," says the woman in a nasal tone.

Detective Tritter sags loosely against the back of his chair. He's pleased.

"Do you feel when a patient is terminal that euthanasia is justified?"

What the hell? "I'm sorry... what kind of question is that?"

"Answer the question." Tritter leans forwards to straighten his suit jacket.

"Yes, but—"

"—Yes or no only, please," the woman repeats sterner.

I shift in my seat. It's hard to sit still. I cross my legs tightly.

"Is it true that you were incarcerated for six months about a year and a half ago on charges of excessive prescribing?"

I look to the mirrored glass. More cops are on the other side this time. I don't need to be able to see them to know that. "Yes."

_Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._

"Is it true that the original charge was voluntary manslaughter?"

My throat constricts. "Yes."

"Was the man who died as a result of the overdose your own brother?"

Dammit. I gulp. My eyes flick to the concrete wall for a moment. "Yes."

_Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._

"Was a motorcycle registered to Dr Wilson parked in front of your residence most of this week?"

I can't lie. He's got photos. "Yes."

_Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._

"Do you know who was with Dr Wilson at the time of his death?"

My pulse quickens. My mouth is parched and I struggle to swallow. "No," I say flatly.

The scratching is frantic now. The woman marks down the answer. Shit, shit, shit. My hands are shaking in my lap. They'll know I've lied. I clutch at my jeans under the table. It's the only way to try to still the trembling.

"Was the person with him at the time of his death you?"

My heart squeezes. "No."

_Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._

I'm screwed. He's got a motive, and even if none of it's concrete proof, he's got convincing evidence. And worst of all, the truth is... had Wilson asked me, I'd have done it for him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

I take a sip of peppermint tea and sag against the incredibly soft cushion of the couch. Seriously, this guy's couch is amazing. It's almost like a maternity chair. "So, what was Remy like as a child?" I ask in an uncharacteristically friendly tone.

Seated on the matching recliner positioned beside the couch to create an L shape, Thirteen's dad sets his cup on a coaster on the coffee table between us. "Well, I'm her father so I'm a little biased." He chuckles. "But she was always very bright, a bit of a tomboy, but also really sensitive. Terrified of spiders."

"Aww, that's just how I imagined her!" I throw on exaggerated interest.

He smiles, probably to be polite.

"It's nice you're enjoying yourself right now," Amber hisses in my ear. "You know Thirteen is in trouble. You know that detective's gotta be ripping her apart about why she was gone all night. You're really going to just let her go back to prison for you?"

"Yeah, she's only got so many good years left," Kutner says at Amber's other side. "Are you such an ass you'd rob of her of that?"

The puzzle circling in my mind blocks them out. "I noticed another little girl in the family photo out in the hall. Remy has never mentioned a sister."

His face turns to stone. Interesting. She's dead.

But there are no pictures of her grown up. So she died young. It wasn't Huntington's.

"Amy," he says, gazing out the sliding glass door that exits to the garden. He watches a grackle land and forage on the grass. "When she was eleven... and Remy was thirteen..."

When Thirteen was thirteen? I choke back a laugh, blowing bubbles into my tea.

"She... she went missing." He closes his eyes for a moment. "We did everything we could. She was never found."

Even more interesting. This family is certainly tragic.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," I say after another sip. I've got to get to the bottom of this.

* * *

I'm in the spare bedroom, lying on my back in the dark, listening to the rumbling of thunder when the door pops open and light from the hall pours inside.

"I see you've settled in." Thirteen leans against the door frame, shoulders drooping a bit as she takes in the sight of me in a pair of her dad's pyjamas. Yes, he's actually loaned me some. He doesn't even know me. How can he be so nice after the hand he's been dealt in life? It doesn't make sense.

She walks over to the bed and draws out a pill from the bottle in her jacket. "Here."

I sit up. "I thought you said you shouldn't have given me morphine."

"Too late now." She looks away, mulling it over. "I really think you should go back on something weaker, but it's my fault, so I can't just stop giving it to you."

"Aren't you going to ask if she's okay?" Kutner spins back and forth in a small arc, sitting on the chair at the desk, in front of the window.

"Of course not," Amber says from the foot of the bed. "Because he's going to try to solve the puzzle of her sister. He's going to drill her about something painful that happened when she was a kid, something she's probably never recovered from, at a time like this."

"That's messed up."

They're right. I can't resist. "Your sister..."

She flinches, almost shrinks backwards, at the mere word.

"What happened to her?"

Rain pounds against the side of the house, splats onto the soft ground below, the wind whistling through the trees.

"Look, it was a long time ago and I really don't feel like talking about it." Her features harshen, causing her jawbone to jut out. "You've had all day to pry all the dirt you could possibly want on me from my dad and you're still going try and squeeze it out of me?

Another rumble sounds in the distance.

"I had to sit in a police interrogation room this evening and take a polygraph test," she says. "I lied for you."

I freeze up. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? "What do you want me to do?"

"You really need to ask that?" Amber flicks my foot.

"Care." Thirteen glares at me, quiet for a moment, leaving only the rain. "But I know that's impossible for you."

Anger rises up, ready to hurl out of me in a spray of venom. The first word is on my tongue when another voice cuts in. "Don't you dare say what you're about to say." It's not Amber. Not Kutner. They're both gone and someone else is standing in the doorway. Wilson.

My face must be expressionless, none of the muscles have moved, but a single tear falls from my eye without warning.

Thirteen's scowl vanishes, replaced by a blank stare.

"Amber and Kutner are gone," I blurt numbly.

Her brows scrunch a bit. "Then, you're not hallucinating any more?"

"No, I'm still hallucinating," I say distantly, my focus on him faintly smiling in the doorway, almost glowing in the light. He's not saying anything else. But he doesn't have to. I'm paralysed. I can't move. Not even to turn away and hide the fluids gathering in my eyes. What the hell am I feeling? Why can't I even assign a label?

A warm droplet rolls down my cheek. Then another. And another.

I glance back at Thirteen, frozen stiff in front of me, her mouth ever so slightly ajar.

_Ting. Ting._  The rain stands out again, pelting the glass, snaking down the siding with a crackling sound. I have no more words. Clearly she has none either.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short chapter and hopefully the PoV change wasn't jarring. It's the only time we're in Cuddy's PoV.

**Chapter 12**

"Mommy," Rachel says as I start to leave the room. I turn around and look at her in bed in the dim glow of the night light. "Why did House go away?"

I'm not sure what she means. Does she mean last night? Or is she talking about before?

"He... um..." I try to think up an excuse as I approach again and sit beside her. "He had to go home."

"But why?" She scrunches her face up. "He should live with us. Right here. Then he won't have to go home any more."

What do I say? I can't believe she got so attached to him.

"Well, sweetie, sometimes grown-ups can't live together."

"Why not?" She cocks her head to the side, eyes like saucers.

"It's hard to explain." I touch her cheek playfully. She grins wide. "Just because."

Her face is quickly serious again. She's not falling for that. "But when people love each other they live together."

Where did she pick that up? I regain my composure. "That's right." I lean in and kiss her forehead. "Moms and their kids love each other and they live together."

"Uh-uh! Not like that!" She shakes her head. "You and House!"

"But I don't—" I stop myself.

Words traded fly through my mind. Then the ones that never left my lips. Then his face pained with desperation. His eyes burning sincere, vulnerable, that last time when he swore he'd do better, when he told me loved me, and that he needed me. And I just closed him out.

"Mommy?" Rachel's voice jars me. She pokes my arm. "Are you okay?"

"Y—yeah, I'm fine, sweetie. You should get some sleep. It's past your bedtime." I sweep her bangs with my thumb. "You've got school tomorrow."

"But I don't wanna go..." she says through a yawn and closes her eyes.

I shut the door, lean back against it with a deep breath. He's still alive. That's been gnawing at me since I saw him standing there last night, clutching a new cane. How, though? Why? Wilson is gone. There's no way he's holding it together. Especially not after what he says he did.

Hadley was with him. She's looking out for him. Doing what I couldn't.

No. I tighten my fingers into fists. None of this was my fault. I didn't make House go back to vicodin. I didn't give Wilson cancer. I didn't destroy his life. He's done that himself. Like he always does. He's a selfish child. It's not my job to keep him in line, not any more.

My eyes cloud with moisture. This isn't my fault. It's not. I slide to the floor. So why can't I make it go away? This thing that's gripping me and tearing me apart.

I don't love him. He's an addict. He hasn't changed. He only thinks of himself. I don't love him. I don't.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Time seems to stand still except for the rain. He's sitting perfectly unmoving, his face like a statue with wet inexplicably streaked down, devoid of any other sign of emotion. His gaze is distant, fixed on the doorway behind me. What the hell is going on?

I can't ask. I can't sit down next to him. I sure as hell can't hug him.

I'm frozen in place for what feels like an eternity before I turn and head for the hall. I stop in the doorway and without turning back say, "I'm going home. I'll be back tomorrow."

* * *

I take off my jacket and hang it in the small closet by the front door. Arms wrap about my waist from behind. I flinch reflexively, despite knowing it's Aya.

" _Remy,_ _daijoubu_?" She rests her head against my back. I only know scattered words and phrases that she's taught me. She's asking if I'm okay.

"Yeah. I'm fine." I turn around. She's dressed cute and girly as usual, in a blouse and frilly skirt. I give her a peck on the cheek.

"If work has been stressful, why don't we talk about it?"

I've told her some of the situation with House, but not all of it; not that I'm the suspect. And I haven't told her that I think the symptoms are starting to affect me. I can't.

"It's nothing," I lie, closing the closet door.

The concern on her face deepens. "No, something is bothering you." She strokes my hair, then tucks it behind my ear.

She's about to say something else, but before she can, I grab her head and put my mouth on hers, pin her against the wall, attacking her lips with mine. She quickly meets my motions. Perfect way to stop the questions. And I could use some fun. My hands move down her neck, down her shoulders, cupping her small breasts for a moment before I slide up along her thigh and under the ruffles of her skirt, for a grope.

She lets out a stifled squeak at my touch. I direct us towards the bedroom.

* * *

The purple light from the lamp on the bedside table casts over her long, jet black hair and makes it shimmer. I'm on my back, holding her close, skin on skin under the satin sheets.

"You can tell me now," she says between kisses and warm breaths at my neck. "...what's bothering you."

"Nothing."

"If you say so." She climbs on top of me and takes my lips in hers. I kiss back, half-heartedly coasting my hands along her body. She caresses me between the legs, but my eyes go to the clock. It's just past midnight.

She pulls back, studying me. "No, you're thinking about something."

"It's nothing. It's just the stuff with House and that detective." I trail my fingers over her back. "I've already told you. And it's not really bothering me."

"Remy." She sounds annoyed. She sits up, the covers falling around us, her expression like a little girl about to throw a tantrum. " _Uso tsukanaide_ _yo!_ "

"Why do you think I'm lying?" I smile to disarm her.

It doesn't work. Her features stay stern. "Because any other time you're ready to go again and again."

"Look, I'm just tired."

"You're never too tired. Something is wrong."

"Everything's fine."

She climbs off me and goes to pick her panties off the carpet, her soft curves dimly illuminated in the lamp light.

"Come back to bed." I sigh, patting the space beside me.

"No." She slips her legs through her underwear, then grabs a short, lacy nightgown from the dresser and slides it on. "Not until you tell me what's really wrong."

"What, you're gonna sleep on the couch?" I prop myself up with my pillow against the headboard.

"If that's what it takes." She walks for the door.

"Takes to what?"

She pauses, turns back. I can just make out her features through the shadows. She's got to be processing the wording. She's fluent in English, but sometimes it still takes her a moment to respond to a confusing turn of phrase.

"To get you to let me in," she finally says.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." She leaves the room.

I pull myself from the mattress to fetch my own underwear and put them on, then a pyjama shirt. I go after her, catch her arm in the hall. "Just come back to bed."

"No."

"Come on, you're acting like a spoiled brat."

She turns and glares at me. "You keep a wall up." Her voice is pained. "You never let me too close."

The look on her face makes me crumble. I can't do this to her.

"I'm sorry." I throw my arms around her. "I'm just... I'm afraid of hurting you."

She latches on tight. "What you're doing right now is hurting me."

"I know, but... " Weakness overtakes my limbs. I pull us down onto the couch, squeezing her, my chin resting on her shoulder. "I don't want to drag you down with me." My voice trembles. "I've said it before. You'd be better off with someone else."

"And I've told you..." She draws back and strokes my cheek with her thumb, speaking in a reassuring tone." _Nani ga attemo Remy dake aishiteru yo_." Pretty sure she's saying no matter what happens, I'm the only one she loves.

Those words grip me. I fall against her, sliding down into her lap, arms wrapped about her waist.

"You're so strong." She runs her fingers through my hair. "I love that about you," she says. "But you can't protect me from this. We have to fight it together."

* * *

**Monday**

The morning sun beams through the large windows of the hospital room, a change from all the rain. Kevin is awake. Sara stands from his bedside and leaves without a word, sliding the door closed behind her. At least she isn't glaring or hurling obscenities this time.

"So, how are you feeling?" I approach the bed.

"Not great." Kevin scratches at his hospital bracelet. "But my oncologist says the prognosis is good since it was caught early enough."

Oncologist. My jaw tightens.

"Is something wrong?"

"N—no," I answer reflexively. "It's just..." Why am I saying this? "...we recently lost a very special oncologist... and friend."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

I look out the window. Remnants of last night's rain still glisten in puddles on the pavement below, not quite dry. A patient in a wheel chair is helped by a nurse onto a bench in the courtyard.

"Have you told Sara?" I ask, glancing back to Kevin.

His mouth forms a soft smile. "Yeah. And she says it doesn't matter. She already knew I was... a bit  _different_... and she's always accepted that. She says she doesn't care about the reason. She'll never see me as anyone other than the guy she fell in love with."

"That's got to give you something to fight for."

"Yeah." There's a peace on his face that wasn't there before.

I pat his shoulder. "Well, I'll check in on you again soon, okay?"

"Your department is diagnostic medicine. It's not really your job, is it?"

"No, but..."

Before I can finish, he winces and reaches towards the bottom end of the bed. "My feet..."

"What is it?" I hurry to pull up the blanket.

"They're itching."

I brush my fingers across the arch of his right foot, then his left. "Do you feel that?"

"Yes." He grins. "And look." His toes wiggle slightly.

I smile back at him. A few moments pass. "I'm... I'm just so sorry again," I say solemnly.

"It's okay. Really." He stares unblinkingly. "And I'm not saying that because I pity you."

My hands freeze clutching his blanket, about to cover his feet again. He's seeing through me. I never like it when people can do that.

"I've had to fight my body for a long time," he says. "It might be a different problem, but I know what it's like having no control."

I drape the blanket over his feet, resume eye contact with no idea how to respond.

"There might not be a cure yet, but that doesn't mean there's no hope. Don't give up."

My mouth opens, though I'm still not quite sure what I'm about to say. Before I can, the door slides open. I turn around. Suit and tie. It's Detective Tritter. A lump forms in my throat at the way he strides in with a look of purpose, not quite smirking, but wanting to.

"Remy Hadley," he says, reaching around under the back of his suit jacket, to his belt, to pull something out. A glint of metal. Handcuffs. "You're under arrest for the murder of James Wilson."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

"She's been what?!" Thirteen's dad's voice echoes through the hall into the spare bedroom, where I'm sitting in the chair, legs propped up on the desk in front of the window, staring blankly out across the lawn below.

"How is that possible?!" He stomps past the door. "She's innocent! She'd never do anything like that!" Then he stomps back. "That's ridiculous! They can't hold her!"

Orange and yellow leaves rustle in the wind. A few break off and float on the breeze, twirling, dancing, for a short distance before falling to the ground, lifeless. Wouldn't it be nice if that dried out piece of plant matter were me?

"You know what's going on," Wilson says. I half glance over. He's standing beside the corner of the desk I'm angled towards.

"Yeah," I say without emotion.

"You can't just sit here like this contemplating death."

"Why not?" I look at him fully now.

Brows twitching with incredulity, his warm brown eyes judge me. "You're not really going to be a stubborn child even now, are you?"

I grab my cane, scratch my nails against the nickel-plated handle.

"Don't pretend you're okay with this."

My lip stiffens. "I am."

"Why do this?" His voice raises pitch in exasperation. "Who are you trying to fool?"

"What's wrong, honey?" asks Thirteen's step mom, muffled by the walls.

"It's Remy. She's been arrested! I'm going down to get her."

They keep talking, but their voices turn indistinct.

"You care," Wilson says. "Why should it be so hard for you to admit that after all that's happened? After what she's done for you."

I glower through the glass at the fluffy white clouds.

"Oh, I know what you're afraid of," he continues. "You don't want to care. Because if you care, then it hurts. If you care, you have to face the fear of losing her too."

My eyes narrow on reflex. "You know, since you've been dead I forgot how annoying you actually are."

"What a load of crap. You've missed me every second." He leans on the desk, forcing himself nearer in my peripheral vision. "There's a word for this. I've looked it up."

"How would  _you_  look anything up?" I turn to him again, almost wanting to smirk. "You're a figment of my imagination."

"Or am I?" He raises a brow teasingly.

"Oh, right, I'm supposed to believe you're communicating with me from beyond the grave."

"You never know."

I snort.

"The point is, you're what the Japanese call a tsundere." He chuckles. "What's funny is that term is usually assigned to teenaged girls in cartoons."

"Still annoying." I lift my cane and swing it at his leg.

"Ow!" He recoils, hopping back holding his shin. The smile stays on his face the entire time. "You say you that, but deep down you've got warm, fuzzy, lovey feelings for me. And you always will."

"Hallucination-you is delusional."

"Say that all you want." He grabs my cane from me, holds it away.

"Give that back." I reach, not quite convinced I should have to get out of my comfortable position.

"You love to keep up the asshole exterior, but inside lies a heart of gold. And you're not fooling me."

I laugh. "Of course not. Seeing as how you're a misfire of my brain."

"Oh, so you admit it, then?"

"No." I move my legs off the desk so I can stand. "Just give me my damn cane."

"Only if you get off your ass."

"Ah, already got off my ass." I reach for the cane again.

"Not what I meant." He keeps dodging my attempts to lay my hands on it, blocking with his arms, pushing me back. He stands on his toes and holds it as high as he can.

"This is ridiculous. I'm taller than you." My fingers touch the wood, wrap around it. I easily jerk it from his grasp.

Instead of his eyes flickering with irritation, he gives a satisfied smile. "Good. Now go and help Thirteen."

I freeze, cane still mid-air, held out from my side. He wanted me to do this. Oh, what the hell am I saying? He's not even real. This is just me battling with my subconscious. Which means...

"You want to go," he says. "You need to."

I lower my cane to the floor, eyeing him apprehensively.

"You're not protecting yourself. Caring is not what's going to make you miserable, not in the end. And... you already care."

I finally open my mouth, my gaze on the carpet, focusing in on the fine blue fibres."Why should I listen to anything a hallucinated version of you has to say?"

"Well, firstly, you don't honestly know that I'm only a hallucination. And secondly, even if I am, then I'm part of you. And that means part of you knows you're going to hate yourself if you don't do this."

There's a long pause.

"Dammit!" Thirteen's dad drops something in the other room. He must be rummaging for shoes and car keys, or whatever else he needs.

"You know I'm right," Wilson says. "You know what you need to do."

I don't answer. I grip my cane tightly, then turn and limp a step towards the door.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Buzzing fluorescent lights and the stench of hydrogen peroxide over urine and sweat wisps into my nostrils and intensifies the pounding in my head. I'm sitting as far off the rock hard mattress as I can, staring at the steel bars across from me.

My cell mate drops from the top bunk with a screech of springs and looms over me. She's in her early to mid forties, maybe, about 5"11, large framed and muscular with rough, tanned skin, shaggy, shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and cracked lips. Her clothes are plain. Jeans and a tank-top under a sleeveless shirt tied at the waist. No make-up. Doesn't look like a hooker. Gotta be assault or drugs.

"What's a cutie like you in here for?" she rasps.

"Killed a man," I say flatly.

"O—oh..." She backs away, towards the bars.

That line always works to keep them off me.

She squints from a safe distance. "You don't look like a killer."

"Most of us don't." I push my hair behind my ear, giving her what should be cutting eyes, then cross my arms and try to get comfortable. As comfortable as I can be on the edge of a no doubt urine-soaked mattress with springs poking out.

She scurries back over, climbs to her bunk with movements that don't match a woman of her stature. And again, after she's settled in and the creaking has stopped, it's nothing but the high-pitched hum of the fluorescent lights coupled with intoxicated mumblings from the cell across from ours.

I close my eyes. How long have I been in here? I don't have a watch and they, of course, took my phone. Feels like at least half an hour since I was allowed to make a call. I called Aya, of course. Told her they're not allowing bail to be posted, but she's coming anyway.

Feels like forever listening to the droning hum, the drunk woman's babbling, and an occasional movement of a door or footsteps of officers in the hall. Finally, the footsteps draw near. A rotund young officer appears in front of the cell opening. He grabs a key ring from his belt, then unlocks the door. "You're free to go," he says casually, waving his arm through the open space to usher me out.

I stand and head towards him, but have no idea how this is possible. Just a couple of hours ago I'd been charged with first-degree murder without bail, subjected to another mugshot, then informed my arraignment would be on Wednesday. Tritter's clearly been pushing this through the system as quickly as he can.

"Why?" I ask, hesitating in the doorway.

"The charges have been dropped."

That makes no sense. I follow him down the hall, running through the possibilities in my head. Lack of evidence? Maybe. But Tritter has caught me in such a way that there's got to be enough to take it trial.

Three familiar, yet weary, faces greet me as we exit into the bustling main lobby of the police station. Aya, Dad, and Linda, my step-mom. They're sitting on one side of the connected seats that line the walls near the entrance.

"Remy!" they all exclaim at nearly the same time, leaping up and hurrying to meet me part way. Dad hugs me, then Aya, then Linda.

"What happened?" I ask, looking between the three of them.

"Your friend Jonathan; he asked to talk to the detective... and that's it. He hasn't come back."

"He must have had some proof that you weren't involved," Linda offers.

"Is something wrong?" Dad touches my arm.

They're all staring at me. "N—no," I lie. Aya grabs my hand. She knows. I'm not sure what to feel.

Then I catch him in my periphery; House in handcuffs, being led, limping, by a uniformed officer. He's being taken from the back, where the interrogation rooms are, towards the holding cells.

I clench my hands into fists and start marching towards them without thinking. It's as if the all the cops and minor offenders shuffling about through the lobby don't exist.

"Remy!" Dad, Linda, and Aya's voices ring behind me. "What are you doing?"

"You're the moron," I say, glaring at House.

He's allowed to pull to a stop by the officer gripping his arm. He stares back, eyes narrow, calculating.

"With all the charges you'll have stacked against you now, you'll probably never see the outside again." My fingers fidget at my sides. I want to grab something, crush something, maybe, but there's nothing.

"Oh, so you'd be happier if I let you go to prison for something you didn't do?"

Would I?

"No," I say after a moment. "But you didn't have to screw it up."

"What, your plan to return to self-destruction, to spend your last good years in a cell?" he barks. "All for what?"

My jaw clenches. It seems this whole time I've been dancing around it, never able to say it directly. But now... after what he's just done. "For you, idiot."

His eyes widen for a second. Softness washes over his face. He's questioning. Why would I care so much?

Then his features harshen again. "And I'm doing this for you,  _moron_." He stresses the last word as if to one-up me and prove that, yes, I'm the one deserving of the title.

He rubs his handcuffed arms against his bad leg, then pulls forwards. He and the officer start moving again, our eyes still locked. "You've got someone who loves you," he says, tossing a backward glance at Aya as she walks up to me and brushes my hand. "Don't throw that away."

"I'm sorry..." Aya says softly at my ear.

I watch him drift away down the hall.

"Good evening, Dr Hadley," comes a smug voice on my left. I turn. It's Detective Tritter. There's something in that curl of his lips and that glint in his eyes. He never truly suspected me. Not for a more than a moment or two. That bastard. He planned this from the start. He knew I was protecting House. He put me in a desperate situation to flush him out. And now he's got exactly what he wanted.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"I'm proud of you," Wilson says as I stare at the wall of my cell. Luckily, the 300lb black guy sharing it with me is dead asleep.

"Oh, shut up," I snap. "You sound like a parent whose kid has just come home from their first day of kindergarten."

He gives a tilted a smile, leaning back against the bars. "It's not going to be all bad, you know."

"What? Going to prison for the rest of my already miserable life?" My face contorts with sarcasm. "Oh no, it's gonna be great, I'm sure."

"At least you've got me."

"You'll go away soon." I glance up at the stain on the ceiling from water damage. "No morphine in prison."

His brows raise and wiggle ever so slightly. "Don't be so sure."

"You're actually encouraging me to try and score drugs?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I'm just saying don't be so quick to assume the reason you're seeing me is the morphine."

I scoff. "Oh, right. I forgot you're really an angel, or whatever."

He rolls his eyes, clearly unamused. "I didn't say that. But, you know, I wouldn't be an angel. I'd be a spirit. Big difference. But that's beside the point." He crosses his arms, settling in more comfortably against the cell bars. "What I  _am_  saying is there's a very good chance you've had a serious psychological break."

"So..." A smug smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. "You're finally admitting I'm just crazy."

"Hard to say." He smirks. Great. He's going to keep playing this game. "But the fact you're seeking validation from someone you believe is a hallucination is interesting."

* * *

**Tuesday**

_Clang. Clang._  Something's hitting the bars of my cell. Sounds like a police baton. I squint my bleary eyes downwards from the top bunk. I haven't slept all night. Well, maybe broken intervals amounting to about an hour.

"You've got a visitor," says the fat-kid cop.

I pull myself up. It feels like what's left of my thigh muscle is being chewed away at by millions of tiny flesh-eating ants. And the withdrawal has barely even begun.

"Come with me." He unlocks the cell, handcuffs me, and leads me down the hall. It takes every bit of strength I have to limp after him without my cane. I end up sliding against the wall when we pass through the lobby. He brings me to an interrogation room.

The door opens to reveal an unexpected form seated at the table. She looks at me, blinks long and sucks her lips into her mouth for a second, hands wringing on the metal surface. "I was wrong," she says.

I limp to the table and Blubber-Rolls pulls out the chair for me, then withdraws to the door. "About what?" I sit down.

"Everything." She glances away, flicks her eyelids with a finger, trying to hold back the tears gathering. "You  _have_  changed."

I drum a fist against my thigh, partly to fight the pain, partly because I have no cane to tap.

"Hadley called and told me what you did." Cuddy reaches across the table. I put my hand on top, extend it to her. She grabs on. "For her... and for Wilson."

"Told you so." Wilson plucks my shoulder. He's not always there—he comes and goes— but it seems he's going to stick around. "She loves you."

I want to tell him to shut up. Obviously that's not an option.

"I'm so sorry..." Her voice wavers. I slide my hand from hers, stand and hobble over to her, gripping the table for support. I put my arms around her and her head sits against my chest. She hugs back. "I was so selfish," she sobs. "I didn't want to give you another chance because... because I didn't want to love you." She pulls back. Her tear-filled eyes meet mine. "But I do." She buries her head against me again.

"It's stupid to tell me all this now," I finally say, fingers firmly at her back.

"I know... I know." She squeezes tight. "But when you get out..." She withdraws again, wiping the wet from her face with her sweater sleeve. "...things will be different."

" _If_  I get out."

"You will." She pulls free to stand up. "We'll get the best lawyers and... and we'll figure this out." She tugs me into a kiss.

I glance to Wilson, who's beaming with his hands on the back of my empty chair. Yeah, he's gonna take all the credit. I'll never hear the end of it.

And I don't care. I can't stop my mouth from curving upwards just a bit as Cuddy's lips tangle with mine.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

**One Year Later**

I bring the car to a stop in front of the corrections facility. The asphalt sparkles under the afternoon sun. Cane in hand, he exits and makes his way over with a limp. Seems we've lived this before... only in reverse. By about fifteen feet off, he's smiling. I reach and pop open the passenger side door to let him in.

"As per your request... your Dodge Dynasty," I say. The source of his smile. About a month into House's sentence, during a visit, he asked me to look for it. And I ended up checking around every used car lot and junk yard in the state in order to track it down. "So, what's the story with this car? Must be a good one."

He sandwiches his cane between his knees. "It was Wilson's. It's what he had when I met him."

I start us down the road, headed back for the highway.

His eyes become wistful, focused on the rear-view mirror, as he shifts his cane about. "We had a lot of good times in this car."

I beam at him. "Wow..."

"Ohhhh... what a filthy mind you've got." He pretends to scold me with an appalled expression. "Not like that." Then he shows a bit of teeth, himself, glancing in the mirror again.

"Anyway, Bonnie, his second wife, wanted him to get rid of it, so he gave it to me."

"You're so sentimental." I stop the car at the junction, looking both ways, waiting for traffic to pass. "It's sweet." I'm half teasing him, half serious.

"You know the way, right?" He glances to the road sign outside the window. "To Cuddy's new place."

"Yeah. I've been there a few times."

"Really? Hanging out with the ex-boss now?"

I push down on the gas pedal and the car lurches forwards, barrelling onto the highway.

"Well, actually, ex-boss of the ex-boss."

"She hasn't told you?" I look at him in disbelief. "She's taken her position back. Foreman's gone to Princeton General; their chief of staff has retired."

"No." A glint of amusement shines in his eyes. "She's told me. I just wanted to see if you'd believe that she hasn't told me."

I smile. Typical. "Anyway, yeah, we've gone to her house for dinner a couple of times. Rachel is adorable. Always fibbing and telling tall tales."

His face swells with pride. "I taught her that, you know."

"Yeah." I shift lanes, pick up speed. A guy in a BMW seems to have his ego insulted as we overtake him.

A few moments pass with only the wind rushing by the sides of the car. There's something about the way House keeps glancing in the rear-view mirror, to the back seat. Someone's there. At least  _he_  sees someone else there.

"It's Wilson, isn't it?"

He stops toying with his cane, frozen as if he's been caught in the act of a crime. "What?"

"In the backseat."

His eyes narrow at me and he leans his cane towards the dash. "Maybe we should stop at a mental hospital on the way."

"You've been doing fine," I say, "I don't really think—"

"Not for me. For you."

I give him an "are you serious?" look.

"You're the one asking, without a hint of joking, if a dead guy's sitting in the back seat."

"Who cares how I worded it? The point is you see him. Admit it."

House just stares for several seconds. "Fine. I see him. Aren't you worried?"

"Well, obviously it could be a concern... but you're fine. You're lucid." I glance at the backseat through the mirror, then to the road in front, then to House again. "I think it's a good thing for you."

He doesn't answer, gaze stern, drifting from me to the dash intermittently. "You know... I've been thinking about something you said once."

"What's that?" I check the speedometer. We're going 60. Gas is down to a quarter of a tank. I should stop at the next station.

"When you were telling me to respect Wilson's wishes... you said, by firing you, I'd done the nicest thing anyone's ever done for you... and I don't even like you that much..."

He shifts his cane about between his knees. I just listen.

"You were wrong." His eyes flicker with intensity. "I like you."

I never truly believed he didn't... but hearing that from him, knowing how hard it must be, knowing I'm one of the only people he'd ever utter such words to, fills my chest with warmth. I smile faintly.

"You're not boring," he says.

The greatest compliment House could give. We're locked on one another for several seconds. A silence that communicates better than words the mutual respect and affection that lies between us.

"So... wanna go to the spud gun thing again this year?"

"Yeah." My smile widens as I turn back to the highway sprawling ahead. "And we're gonna beat that asshole Harold this time."

**The End**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm concerned that the fact that this chapter skips ahead until everything is resolved may be irritating to readers and feel anticlimactic. I just felt that the trial and House's time in prison would exceed the scope of this story and derail from the original theme. Another loose end is Thirteen's sister, but again I felt that was outside the scope of this story. I also realise I don't mention anything else about Thirteen's Huntington's. I may expand upon these things in another story (or stories) at some point if there's enough interest. I wanted this fic to centre around Thirteen and House's friendship.
> 
> I'm interested in your opinions! Thanks for reading!


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